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He  regarded  her  happily,  possessively,  joyfully. 


THE  BROKEN  BELL 


By 
MARIE  VAN  VORST 


Author  of 

FIRST  LOVE,  THE  GIRL  FROM 
HIS  TOWN,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

FRANK  CRAIG 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1912 
THE  BOBBS-MEBRILL  COMPANY 


BRAUNWORTH   &    CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTIRS 

BROOKLYN.   N.  V. 


PS 
35-^-3 

CONTENTS 

V3  773  4- 

CHAFTER 

PAOB 

I 

FOR  THE  CHILD'S  SAKE  . 

*         I 

II 

WOMEN  WHO  ARE  SACRED 

.       *       ,     17 

III 

MELLOW  SAN  MARCELLO 

m        33 

IV 

A  FRIEND  OF  THE  CONTE 

„     54 

V 

FREE  AND  ALONE    . 

.:           :,,         59 

VI 
VII 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  LIFE 
"ITALY,  MY  ITALY  !" 

.      65 
.      70 

VIII 

THE  FACE  IN  THE  GLASS 

.      87 

IX 

INN  OF  THE  SEVEN  DOVES 

.      93 

X 

THE  PILGRIM  TARRIES    . 

.        .     107 

XI 

IN  THE  FRESH  MORNING 

.    114 

XII 

WHERE  Is  LE  BALZE?    . 

.    124 

XIII 

LITTLE  SANDRO'S  MOTHER 

.    128 

XIV 

THE  HEART  OF  A  HERMIT 

.    138 

XV 

DELL  A  GANDARA'S  WISH 

.    147 

XVI 

THE  GIFT  OF  A  SOUL 

.     154 

XVII 

THE  TIBER'S  FIRST  LOVE 

.    163 

XVIII 
XIX 
XX 

UP  TOWARD  THE  SNOWS 

MADONNA  MARIA    . 
THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM 

.    174 
.    185 
.    206 

XXI 
XXII 

THE  MIRACLE  OF  HEALING 
ON  THE  FOURTH  DAY    . 

.    211 
.    221 

XXIII 

QUESTION  AND  ANSWER  . 

.    229 

XXIV 

THE  WISDOM  OF  AGE 

..    235 

XXV 

A  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  . 

.    243 

XXVI 

SEVENTY  TIMES  SEVEN  . 

.    247 

XXVII 

THE  SHADOW  OF  ROME  . 

.    255 

XXVIII 

THE  Two  VOICES   . 

.    257 

XXIX 

THE  WAY  TO  HAPPINESS 

.    264 

XXX 

THE  MOTHER  CHURCH   . 

271 

1703839 


THE  BROKEN  BELL 


THE  BROKEN  BELL 

CHAPTER  I 

FOR  THE  CHILD'S  SAKE 

THE  Contessa  Sant'  Alcione  glanced  at  her 
husband  across  the  table.  Between  them 
were  a  few  books  and  a  vase  filled  with  carna 
tions. 

The  Conte  Luigi  Felice  Umberto  Sant'  Alcione, 
nearly  forty  years  old,  and  his  wife's  senior  by 
ten  years,  looked  at  this  moment  younger  than 
she.  His  eager  face,  his  ardent  expression,  made 
him  appear  youthful  beside  the  grave  beauty  of 
his  wife,  who  now  struggled  with  a  strong  emo 
tion. 

"Luigi,"  she  began,  but  he  interruptsd. 

"Maria,  won't  you  call  me  Gigi  ?" 

She  acceded.  "Gigi,  wouldn't  it  be  better  to 
1 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

let  things  be  as  they  are  and  just  go  on  as  be 
fore?" 

"Ah,  no,  how  could  we  do  that,  Maria  ?  After 
a  confession  like  this,  how  can  we  go  on  as  be 
fore?  How  could  we,  arnica  mia?  You  are  like 
a  frozen  saint,  and  I  ...  well,  never  mind 
me!" 

He  extended  his  slender  hands,  on  whose 
fingers  shone  the  wedding-ring  and  a  seal.  His 
wife  took  one  of  the  carnations  from  the  vase 
and  laid  the  flower  gently  across  her  husband's 
palm.  She  then  went  over  to  the  long  window 
and  stood  looking  out.  Below  the  Villa  Castel 
dell'  Oro,  high  on  its  cypress-sentineled  hill,  lay 
all  Naples,  with  its  scattered  houses,  their  pink 
and  yellow  tapestry  marked  by  the  purple  and 
the  gray  rotundas  of  the  basilicas.  Farther  on, 
around  the  city's  port,  swept  the  inimitable  sea. 

The  Contessa  Sant*  Alcione  had  listened  for 
an  hour  to  her  husband's  point  of  view.  She 
had  been  surprised  and  touched  and  not  a  little 
thankful  to  discover  that  as  the  man  confessed 


FOR    THE    CHILD'S    SAKE 

to  her  he  still  had  power  to  move  her :  she  could 
still  pity  him  sufficiently  to  listen  without  inter 
rupting  by  blame.  Her  husband  said  to  her 
across  the  room: 

"Maria,  as  you  stand  there  now  you  recall  our 
wedding-day  as  you  stood  in  the  window  of  our 
salon  in  Genoa.  Do  you  remember?  Then  you 
were  only,  seventeen  years  old." 

A  tremor  passed  through  her.  She  remem 
bered  how  she  had  loved  him  and  that  he  had 
seemed  to  her  everything  a  girl's  ideal  of  a 
young  beautiful  husband  should  be.  They  had 
gone  to  Paris,  and  within  a  month  he  had  been 
unfaithful  to  her. 

"If  you  stand  there  thinking,"  he  cried,  "there 
is  no  hope  for  me !" 

He  put  the  carnation  his  wife  had  given  him 
back  in  the  glass  and  went  over  and  joined  her 
where  she  stood. 

"Tell  me,"  he  pleaded,  "in  spite  of  everything 
isn't  there  one  voice,  Maria,  that  speaks  for  me? 
Isn't  there  one  voice?" 

3 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  sea,  where  across 
from  the  island  of  Capri  a  vessel  steamed 
through  the  milky  waters,  she  answered :  "Yes, 
Gigi." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  her  husband.  "Little  San- 
dro!"  His  eyes  filled  with  ready  tears.  "Ah, 
Maria !" 

The  Contessa  Sant'  Alcione  had  not  put  off 
mourning  for  her  son  until  this  spring,  when  he 
had  been  dead  three  years.  The  husband  mur 
mured  : 

"It  is  a  great  deal,  my  dear,  but  it  is  not 
enough." 

She  said  gravely:  "During  this  last  year,  as 
you  know,  I  have  been  on  the  point  of  going 
away,  but  I  seemed  to  hear  Sandro  call,  his  sweet 
little  voice  calling,  and  that  kept  me  here." 

Sant'  Alcione  murmured:  "Ah,  you  torture 
me,  Maria." 

"But  as  you  say,"  she  repeated,  "it  is  not 
enough.  I  agree  with  you,  Gigi." 

For  the  hundredth  time  he  had  made  a  clean 
4 


FOR    THE    CHILD'S    SAKE 

breast  of  his  most  recent  adventure  to  his  wife 
and  had  come  asking  forgiveness.  The  admira 
tion  she  awakened  among  his  friends,  the  success 
she  marked  everywhere  when  she  appeared, 
roused  his  pride  anew ;  he  was  j  ealous  of  his  pos 
session.  He  now  said : 

"Everything  is  over  of  that  character,  Maria. 
I  assure  you  there  is  not  a  thing  to  hide  from 
you ;  there  never  will  be  anything  again." 

"If  you  only  knew,  Gigi,  what  truth  means  to 
me,"  she  said  earnestly.  "It  is  my  religion." 

"But  you  are  a  Catholic,"  he  asserted,  "a  good 
Catholic." 

"Well,"  she  evaded,  "I  was  a  Puritan  first, 
and  there  is  an  ingrained  hatred  of  a  lie  in  me 
that  only  a  Puritan  can  understand." 

After  a  second  he  said:  "Then  you  can  not 
understand  my  case?" 

"Not  if  you  mean  weakness  before  tempta 
tion,"  she  answered. 

A  gloomy  expression  crossed  Sant'  Alcione's 
sensual  and  usually  tranquil  face.  His  wife  had 
5 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

never  preached  to  him  and  he  was  profoundly 
grateful  for  this.  Her  silent  grace  was  one  of 
the  qualities  that  made  him  still  love  her,  in  his 
own  way.  He  was  grateful  to  her.  If  gratitude 
is  ever  awakened  in  another  it  results  in  one  of 
two  things  according  to  the  nature  of  the  per 
son  :  the  wish  to  escape  from  the  benefactor  for 
ever,  or  a  rooted  devotion.  No  one  in  Naples  or 
Rome  who  knew  Sant'  Alcione  could  have  sup 
posed  that  he  had  any  longer  a  devotion  to  his 
wife.  He  was,  however,  grateful  to  his  wife  for 
the  child  he  had  adored.  The  only  pure  moments 
he  could  recall — he  used  to  bring  them  to  mind 
before  going  to  mass  or  to  confession — were 
those  spent  with  little  Sandro.  Now,  however,  his 
wife's  phrase,  "weakness  before  temptation",  of 
fended  him.  He  murmured  petulantly : 

"Yes,  they  always  say  a  good  woman  is  mer 
ciless  !  Think  of  the  Divine  Mother.  We  should 
be  badly  off,  Maria,  if  She  were  as  severe  as  a 
man's  wife!" 

"Are  you  making  a  religious  confession  to  me, 
6 


FOR    THE    CHILD'S    SAKE 

Gigi?"  The  Contessa  Sant'  Alcione  lifted  her 
fine  brows,  and  met  his  look  for  the  first  time 
since  they  had  begun  to  talk. 

He  did  not  reply.  His  wife's  eyes  had  been 
praised  to  him  many  times  but  now  he  was 
startled  by  the  clarity  of  their  gentian-blue  color, 
their  stainless  blue.  When  he  was  a  young  boy, 
he  had  taken  with  a  chum  of  his  a  trip  through 
Syria:  he  remembered  suddenly  the  color  of  the 
Galilean  sea. 

"No,  Maria,"  he  murmured,  "no.  I  am  mak 
ing  the  confession  of  a  man  to  a  woman,  of  one 
human  being  to  another,  of  a  man  to  the  wife  he 
loves." 

"Then,"  she  answered,  "you  must  not  be  sur 
prised  if  I  take  it  humanly  !  One  of  your  chief 
griefs  against  me  is  that  I  am  'cold'.  I  don't 
understand  disloyalty  or  infidelity." 

"Don't  go  on,"  he  besought  unhappily.  "I 
ought  to  be  glad  you  feel  so.  In  that  case  I  am 
sure  of  you." 

And  she  echoed:  "Sure  of  me?  But  there 
7 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

are  only  two  kinds  of  women,  honest  women  and 
dishonest  women.  There  are  no  betwixts  and  be- 
tweens." 

He  agreed  eagerly:  "Of  course,  Maria,  of 
course,  but  it  is  so  different  with  a  man." 

He  was  not  impatient;  he  was  troubled.  His 
wife  had  forgiven  him  and  been  merciful  count 
less  times :  he  had  now  reason  to  think  that  the 
limit  of  her  patience  was  reached.  She  was  in 
the  height  of  her  beauty,  and  steadily  she  was 
escaping  him.  If  he  had  come  to  her  apartments 
and  found  her  gone  at  any  time  he  would  not 
have  been  surprised.  With  a  gesture  of  despair 
he  exclaimed: 

"Heavens,  Maria,  be  merciful !  Don't  send  me 
away  desperate,  for  I  have  told  you  everything. 
There  is  nothing  to  conceal  and  never  will  be 
again."  But  as  though  he  had  renounced  his 
cause,  Sant'  Alcione  sank  down  in  an  easy-chair 
at  the  side  of  the  window,  and  leaning  his  elbow 
on  the  arm,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Parting  the  curtain  before  the  window,  his 
8 


FOR    THE    CHILD'S    SAKE 

wife  again  leaned  out.  Over  the  crest  of  Vesu 
vius  there  hung  a  fine  delicate  cloud  of  smoke. 
The  sea  was  stainless  as  the  sky.  Here  and  there, 
like  red  roses  scattered  upon  an  amethystine 
glass,  the  sails  of  the  fishing-boats  lay  red  upon 
the  sea.  She  called  up  every  memory  of  her 
young  love.  In  a  nature  as  deep  as  hers,  every 
sentiment,  every  hope  and  every  memory,  lay  like 
shells  on  the  bed  of  the  sea,  undisturbed  by  its 
storms.  There  was  still  tenderness  there  for  her 
husband,  emotion,  attachment,  and  the  loyalty 
that  a  good  woman  has  for  the  man  who  has 
taught  her  life.  With  Maria  Sant'  Alcione  that 
early  love  had  been  pure  and  delicate.  Her  love 
had  sweetened  the  bitter  waters  of  the  first  year 
of  her  marriage,  and  then  for  her  child's  sake  she 
had  endured  and  continued  to  endure.  Every 
gentle  kindly  action  came  obediently  as  she 
called  up  her  past.  She  was  perfectly  honest, 
she  had  never  admitted  the  idea  of  a  rival  to  her 
husband,  or  meditated  revenge.  There  was  noth 
ing  but  his  own  conduct  between  them.  She 
9 


dropped  the  curtain  and  advanced  toward  her 
husband  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek.  She  put  out 
her  hand.  Sant'  Alcione  sprang  up. 

"Gigi,"  she  murmured,  "don't  come  back  un 
less  you  mean  to  stay." 

He  broke  into  a  torrent  of  gratitude  and  pro 
testation  ;  he  fell  down  at  her  feet,  kneeling.  She 
smiled  faintly  and  made  him  rise. 

"Get  up,  Gigi.  Don't  do  that.  I  am  not  even 
a  good  Catholic.  I  have  not  been  to  mass  in  two 
years." 

Excited,  happy,  radiant,  triumphant,  Sant' 
Alcione  continued  to  protest  and  to  bless,  and  the 
woman  was  surprised  to  see  how  his  happiness 
affected  her,  and  that  she  was  glad  for  him 
and  with  him.  He  kissed  her  hands,  regarded 
her  happily,  possessively,  joyfully.  She  realized 
how  lonely  she  had  been,  how  desolate,  how  silent 
and  hungry-hearted  for  years. 

This  was  only  one  of  many  explanations,  but 
unlike  the  others  it  had  been  complete,  and  she 
believed  in  his  good  faith.  She  felt  now  the  need 
10 


FOR    THE    CHILD'S    SAKE 

of  his  companionship,  for  one  of  the  hardest 
things  in  her  long  desertion  had  been  the  un- 
companied  solitary  hours. 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door.  Her  own  little 
maid,  Gioconda,  came  in,  a  pretty  sprightly 
creature,  in  her  black  dress  and  black  apron. 
Maria  dressed  her  a  la  Parisienne. 

"The  Signer  Maggiore  Corti,"  she  announced, 
"is  waiting  for  the  conte." 

Maria  exclaimed:  "Waiting  for  you,  Gigi! 
But  you  will  send  him  away?  Tell  him  there  is 
no  one  at  home,  Gioconda." 

"Ah,  no,  Maria!"  Her  husband  was  already 
at  the  table,  where  his  hat  and  gloves  lay  as  he 
had  put  them  when  he  had  come  in  to  see  his  wife. 
"We  are  going  to  Caserta  by  the  noon  train.  I 
promised  to  Corti  yesterday.  There  are  some 
hunters  there;  they  are  to  be  shown  to  us  to- 
day." 

His  hat  was  under  his  arm ;  he  was  putting  on 
his  gloves.  Gioconda  waited  behind  her  master. 
Maria  Sant'  Alcione  felt  the  girl's  presence  dis- 
11 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

agreeable.  Gioconda's  eyes  were  keen  upon  her 
with  a  vulgar  curiosity.  She  had  never  seen  her 
master  and  mistress  in  intimate  conversation  be 
fore. 

"Bene"  breathed  Maria,  "bene!" 

Hunters  to  be  shown!  Well,  she  had  been 
hunted  and  driven  home!  She  had  been  secured 
and  made  captive,  and  the  strong  man  who  owned 
the  bird  was  locking  the  cage  door  and  going 
away.  Sant'  Alcione  smiled  at  this  wife  bright 
ly.  His  face  was  younger,  eager.  His  gloves 
fitted  him  well,  he  snapped  the  patent  buttons. 

"One  of  the  horses  is  light-weight.  I  fancy 
he'd  just  carry  you,  Maria.  We'll  see." 

She  said  to  herself:  "Perhaps  I  am  too  cold, 
too  little  exacting  as  other  women  can  be.  I 
ought  to  be  able  to  charm  him  now,  if  ever." 

Gioconda  opened  the  door.  Maria  said  in 
French  rapidly:  "Send  Corti  away  to-day. 
Let's  take  the  auto  and  drive  to  .  .  ." 

From  the  door  Gioconda  announced  tran 
quilly  : 

12 


FOR    THE    CHILD'S    SAKE 

"The  Maggiore  is  on  the  stairs.     Shall  I  let 
him  in?" 

"Certainly  not,"  ordered  her  master.  "I  am 
coming  at  once.  It  is  past  eleven.  We  have  just 
time  for  the  noon  train."  He  turned  at  the 
threshold  gaily:  "A  rivederci,  Maria,  a  questa 
sea."  He  looked  back ;  Maria  waited  by  the  table. 
He  murmured  in  French :  "A  thousand  thanks !" 
When  Giocond«t  had  closed  the  door,  and 
Maria  heard  her  husband  greet  the  officer,  and 
their  voices  were  lost  in  the  distance,  she  drew 
out  of  the  vase  the  carnation  carelessly  replaced 
by  Sant'  Alcione;  it  hung  half-way  out  of  the 
water.  She  threw  the  flower  into  the  waste-paper 
basket. 

It  was  not  quite  noon.  Before  her  were  the 
infilled  hours  of  the  idle  day.  She  could  senti- 
lentalize  over  them,  meditate  on  her  early  love 
for  Sant'  Alcione.  The  immense  sacrifice  she 
lade,  the  immense  forbearance  she  showed  her 
msband,  stood  out  against  his  light  volatile  na- 
ire.  Yet  it  was  not  herself  she  pitied. 
13 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Poor  Gigi,"  she  said  aloud,  "you  don't  know 
what  Caserta  has  cost  you.  .  .  ." 

A  flame  had  stirred  in  her  ardent  heart  which 
quivered  with  the  right  to  love.  With  true  emo 
tion  she  had  welcomed  the  glow  and  fire ;  now,  as 
if  a  ruthless  hand  had  struck  it  out,  the  flame 
died  suddenly  and  her  heart  perished  in  her 
breast.  She  wandered  aimlessly  about  her  beau 
tiful  room.  Its  comfort  and  luxury  mocked  her. 
It  was  perfection.  Everything  in  it  was  har 
monious  and  lovely.  She  needed  nothing,  could 
think  of  nothing  which  would  add  to  her  ma 
terial  comfort,  could  conceive  of  nothing 
she  wished  to  purchase,  no  new  addition 
to  her  surroundings  which  would  afford  her 
amusement  to  combine  and  to  buy.  She  was 
surfeited  materially  and  starved  spiritually. 
And  they  might  have  been  so  happy  here !  The 
house  which  was  made  for  companionship,  to 
represent  love  and  home,  was  nothing  but  an 
empty  shell.  She  touched  her  books.  There  was 
nothing  new  among  them;  she  had  read  them 
14 


FOR    THE    CHILD'S    SAKE 

all.  New  music  had  come  from  Paris,  but  she 
had  no  heart  to  try  it.  The  songs  would  all  be 
of  happy  or  unhappy  love.  She  had  wept  so 
many  tears  that  they  no  longer  came  readily, 
and  solitary,  deserted,  she  felt  humiliated  by  her 
position.  Finally  immobile,  in  a  chair  by  the 
window,  she  sat  inert,  waiting.  Not  that  she  ex 
pected  that  anything  good  would  come.  Noth 
ing  more  interesting  than  the  summons  to  a  lone 
ly  luncheon  would  disturb  her,  but  her  hands 
clasped,  her  lovely  face  intensely  melancholy,  the 
Contessa  Sant'  Alcione  waited. 

Gioconda  came  noiselessly  in  with  fresh  carna 
tions  to  arrange  them  in  the  vase.  Maria  smelled 
their  fragrance  and  it  recalled  her  husband's 
careless  indifference  to  her  gift. 

"Take  the  flowers  away,"  she  directed,  "I 
don't  want  any  more  carnations,  Gioconda." 

"No  more  carnations!"  exclaimed  the  girl. 
"But  I  thought  they  were  the  eccellenza's  favor 
ite  flowers !" 

Her  mistress  made  no  reply,  and  the  Italian, 
15 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

with  both  the  fresh  and  faded  flowers  in  her 
hand,  silently  left  the  room.  Gioconda  turned 
things  over  in  her  light  little  mind. 

"The  poor  eccellenze !    He  has  a  wife  like  the 
blessed  Virgin,  and  as  cold  as  an  icicle." 


CHAPTER  II 

WOMEN    WHO    ARE    SACRED 

ONE  spring  afternoon,  eighteen  months 
later,  Maria  Sant'  Alcione  walked 
down  through  the  gardens  of  her  villa  with  a 
young  priest  who  had  been  staying  at  the 
house,  a  member  of  the  last  week-end  party.  Be 
fore  they  left  the  park,  where  back  of  them  the 
Villa  Castel  dell'  Oro,  with  its  green  blinds  and 
its  simple  lines,  cut  out  its  square  of  snow  at  the 
end  of  the  cypress  alley,  Father  Faversham 
stopped. 

'Over  there,  from  this  point,  Contessa,  we  see 
little  Campo  Santo  I  spoke  of  yesterday," 
ind  he  pointed  to  the  white  wall  with  its  cypress 
)ordering  hedge. 

The  contessa  did  not  look  in  the  direction  in 
dicated,  although  she  answered  her  companion : 
17 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Yes,  it's  a  charming  walk  up  the  hill  through 
the  olives." 

"One  would  get  a  view,  I'm  sure,  from  there," 
he  exclaimed. 

"I  saw  the  view  once  only,"  she  said,  "the  day 
I  buried  my  little  son  in  that  Campo  Santo.  I've 
never  been  there  since.  Just  think  what  the 
Neapolitans  say  about  my  cold  heart !" 

Father  Faversham  had  found  his  hostess  orig 
inal  and  charming.  He  had  been  studying  her 
since  he  came  to  stay  with  the  Sant'  Alciones  ten 
days  before. 

"I  can't  go  and  weep  at  a  grave,  Father  Fa 
versham;  I  don't  even  cry  at  funerals."  She 
stopped  and  then  said  shortly :  "In  spite  of  that, 
I  buried  my  youth  and  everything  that  I  have  in 
that  little  grave." 

"Not  everything,"  replied  the  priest  calmly. 
"You  did  not  bury  you*r  beauty." 

His  companion,  surprised  at  such  a  bald  com 
pliment  from  a  priest  and  from  such  an  ascetic 
as  she  knew  her  friend  to  be,  exclaimed : 
18 


WOMEN    WHO    ARE    SACRED 

"I  did  think,  Father  Faversham,  that  you 
would  not  observe — much  less  speak  of — a  wom 
an's  beauty." 

They  had  left  the  gate,  and  taken  their  way 
down  toward  the  Vomero  and  the  cable-cars  to 
the  city.  Faversham  returned  undisturbed : 

"Why  not,  Contessa?  There  are  women  in 
the  story  of  Nazareth  on  whom  my  attention  is 
supposed  to  linger.  I  hope  they  were  beautiful 
— I  believe  they  were  beautiful." 

The  priest  went  over  and  bought  the  tickets 
for  the  little  cars.  Maria  watched  his  slender 
stooping  figure,  bowed  by  the  life  of  an  indoor 
man :  his  rough  clothing  hung  loosely  on  his  thin 
body.  He  helped  the  contessa  into  the  tram  and 
sat  down  beside  her. 

"Oh,  but  those  were  sacred  women,  Father 
Faversham." 

He  met  her  eyes  and  the  half  challenge  in 
them: 

"And  aren't  you  sacred,  Contessa?" 

She  laughed,  clasped  her  hands  in  their 
19 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

wrinkled  tan  gloves,  looked  down  at  them  hu 
morously. 

"Well,  scarcely ;  one  could  hardly  say  that." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  returned  her  companion  in  the 
same  tranquil  voice  he  had  used  in  speaking. 
"It's  a  pity — your  beauty  is  of  that  sacred 
type." 

Before  she  could  reply  the  car  stopped  and  an 
Italian  officer  whom  Faversham  recognized  for 
one  of  the  constant  visitors  at  the  villa,  sprang 
in,  greeted  them  both  ardently,  and  sat  down  be 
fore  Maria.  He  was  in  the  uniform  of  a  major 
in  the  Piedmont  Royal  Cavalry,  and  the  priest 
watched  the  officer  as  Maria  bade  him  good  morn 
ing.  Faversham  for  two  weeks  had  been  study 
ing  the  woman  as  an  artist  studies  the  model  he 
chooses  to  paint,  as  the  sculptor  studies  the  bust, 
but  the  priest's  study  was  more  impassioned — 
he  was  studying  her  as  a  soul. 

The  day  was  cold  and  fresh,  laved  and  washed 
by  the  ocean  winds  that  sweep  in  upon  Naples 
with  the  vigor  of  the  outer  sea.     The  contessa 
20 


WOMEN    WHO    ARE    SACRED 

wore  a  small  hat  of  fur,  and  under  her  veil  with 
its  black  dots  her  cheeks  were  pale  with  the  ivory 
clearness  of  the  southern  skin.  Her  face  was 
oval,  the  lines  pure,  and  there  was  a  fine  melan 
choly  in  her  beauty  which  no  temptations  or  in 
dulgences  had  yet  destroyed.  These  were  the 
words  Faversham  used  to  himself  as  he  thought 
about  her  and  considered  her  relation  to  the  sur 
roundings  of  her  husband's  home. 

He  would  have  said,  had  he  not  known  the 
Spanish  in  her  ancestry,  that  she  was  of  Jewish 
extraction,  for  the  low  brow  and  the  cavity  of 
her  eyes  were  so  stainless  and  so  pure,  so  oriental 
in  drawing  and  in  mold.  Her  hair,  growing  low 
and  firmly  on  her  forehead  and  about  her  ears, 
was  black  without  luster  and  heavy ;  and  her  eyes, 
as  she  raised  them  to  the  Maggiore  Corti  were 
as  blue  as  the  Irish  lakes  in  the  county  where 
Faversham  was  born.  The  color  of  her  eyes  did 
not  spoil  the  priest's  conception  of  Maria.  He 
thought  he  had  only  to  substitute  for  the  fash- 
inable  toque  with  its  incongruity  of  fur  and 
21 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

roses,  a  blue  head-veil  falling  either  side  of  her 
face,  to  transform  her  into  a  woman  of  the  East 
and  permit  her  to  join  the  company  of  pure  and 
holy  Marys. 

She  said  in  Italian  to  the  officer : 

"Corti,  you  can't  come  with  us — Father  Fa- 
versham  and  I  are  off  a  la  tourista  and  you 
mayn't  come.  Father  Faversham,  just  beckon 
to  one  of  those  little  brown  drivers, — they  are  all 
brigands  and  cutthroats — and  tell  him,  will 
you?"  She  lowered  her  voice  as  she  gave  the  di 
rection:  "San  Marcello." 

Corti  cried:  "Where?  Where  did  you  say, 
Contessa  ?" 

From  the  opposite  square  a  tiny  victoria, 
drawn  by  a  superb  little  stallion  hung  with  bells 
and  bright  with  red  leather,  tore  like  mad  to 
them  across  the  cobbles. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  know,  Corti,"  Maria  re 
plied  to  the  officer,  who  helped  her  tenderly  in. 
Faversham  awkwardly  followed. 

Corti  said :    "This  is  very  shocking  and  very 


WOMEN   WHO    ARE    SACRED 

compromising.     I  shall  tell  all  our  friends  how 
you  have  eloped  with  the  padre." 

She  was  impatient  and  cried  out  to  the  driver : 
"Andiamo,  andiamo"  and  waved  to  Corti:  "A 
rivederla,  a  rivederla,  Corti !" 

II  Maggiore  stood  bareheaded  as  they  dashed 
from  the  square,  and  to  her  companion  Maria 
Sant'  Alcione  said: 

"Heavens,  think,  think,  that  men  of  that  kind 
and  type  and  quality  are  the  only  ones  I  have 
seen  in  ten  years !  Are  there  any  others,  Father 
Faversham?  Are  there  any  men?"  And  she 
laughed  a  little  bitterly,  thinking :  "How  should 
a  priest  know?" 

Their  carriage,  set  high,  without  either  springs 
or  rubber  tires,  bounced  them  ecstatically  over 
the  cobbles.  They  passed  down  to  the  Riviera  di 
Chiaja:  a  low  white  wall  was  between  them  and 
the  sea.  The  air  smelt  fresh.  Maria  raised  her 
crimson  sunshade,  and  in  its  suffused  light 
glowed  like  a  flower.  Neither  of  them  paid  at 
tention  to  the  vender  of  violets  and  roses,  who, 
23 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

under  the  wheels  and  the  horse's  hoofs,  thrust 
out  to  them  fragrant  bunches,  but  when  a  small 
fellow  presented  on  Faverham's  side  a  bouquet 
of  red  camellias,  flaked  with  white,  the  priest 
bought  one  and  laid  it  in  his  companion's  lap. 
The  contessa  lifted  her  fine  brows,  again  sur 
prised. 

"They  make  me  think  of  Marguerite  Gau- 
thier,  another  woman  whom  you  would  not  call 
sacred!"  And  she  fastened  the  flower  with  its 
striped  leaves  in  the  lapel  of  her  tailored  coat. 
The  camellia  lay  against  the  cloth  like  a  spot  of 
blood. 

"Oh,  just  a  moment,"  she  asked,  "would  you 
forgive  me  if  I  ran  into  the  glove  shop  a  second? 
Look,"  she  held  out  her  hand  where  a  new  glove 
had  split  across  the  palm.  "I  am  too  much  of  a 
coquette  to  go  on  _with  a  split  glove,  especially 
with  you  who  are  so  kind  to  me."  And  as  the 
cocchiere  drew  up  on  the  Via  di  Chiaja,  Maria 
sprang  out  and  disappeared  within  a  little  door. 

Faversham,  on  his  uncomfortable  seat,  looked 
24 


WOMEN    WHO    ARE    SACRED 

up  the  Via  di  Chiaja,  where,  narrow,  uneven, 
cobbled,  this  street  of  Naples  flows  like  a  river 
of  life  between  the  high  stucco  houses  and  their 
overhanging  balconies.  The  verandas  are  ever 
draped  with  human  beings,  leaning  out,  leaning 
over  in  the  sunlight,  gazing  down  on  the  river  of 
life  as  women  in  negligee,  men  smoking  their 
cigarettes,  indolent  idle  people,  stare  down  upon 
Naples.  On  the  filthy  sidewalks,  in  the  center  of 
the  street,  the  Neapolitans  surge  and  drift,  bent 
on  their  constant  amusements  and  on  their  light 
affairs.  Flowers  brilliant  and  beautiful  make 
part  of  the  pageant,  and  come  showering  down 
into  the  street  from  the  staircases  banked  high 
with  narcissus  and  lily  and  rose.  Noisy,  ori 
ental,  careless,  joyous  and  enchanting,  the  com 
motion  had  a  charm  which  the  pale  ascetic  ap 
preciated.  But  the  street  scene  only  made  a 
background,  for  the  priest's  mind  was  consider 
ing  the  woman  who  had  gone  into  the  glove  shop. 
She  had  absorbed  him  ever  since  he  had  come  to 
Naples. 

25 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Faversham  had  read  at  Oxford,  in  Magdalen, 
with  an  American  called  John  Fairbanks,  and  the 
young  man's  friendship  had  been  precious  to  the 
Irishman. 

"If  you  chance  to  poke  about  Italy,  old  chap," 
Fairbanks  had  said  to  him,  "look  up  my  sister, 
won't  you?  Mary  Sant'  Alcione.  I  know," 
Fairbanks  had  laughed,  "it  does  sound  incon 
gruous.  She  married  at  seventeen  a  dago  at 
Naples.  He  is  a  count,  if  that  helps  any,  and  I 
believe  he  leads  her  a  dog's  life.  While  I  think 
of  it,  I'll  give  you  a  line  to  her.  She'll  like  you 
awfully,  especially  if  you  come  from  me." 

That  same  year  young  Fairbanks  had  been 
drowned  in  the  Thames,  and  ten  years  afterward 
the  priest  had  taken  out  the  letter  of  introduc 
tion  in  the  Hotel  Bertolini. 

"Alia  Contessa  Luigi  Sant'  Alcione,  Villa  Cas- 
tel  dell'  Oro— " 

The  answer  to  the  letter  he  left  with  his  card 
was  an  urgent  invitation  to  come  to  the  villa  and 
remain  while  he  was  in  Naples.  He  had  arrived 
26 


WOMEN    WHO    ARE    SACRED 

on  the  night  of  a  large  dinner,  and  saw  his  host 
ess  for  the  first  time  in  her  jewels  and  dinner 
dress.  He  saw  as  well  the  heart  of  Neapolitan 
society,  even  so  high  as  the  royal  duke  himself, 
and  Faversham  was  not  impressed.  His  host,  a 
fashionable  Neapolitan  with  a  military  bearing, 
made  himself  agreeable  to  Faversham.  From 
then  on,  there  had  been  constant  festivity  at  the 
villa.  Several  people  were  guests  in  the  house, 
notably  a  Madame  di  Ligni,  to  whom  the  count's 
devotions  were  not  disguised.  Faversham  ob 
served  his  old  friend's  sister,  contenting  himself 
with  a  few  words  with  her  now  and  then,  and  un 
consciously  filling  the  house  with  the  beauty  of 
his  influence.  He  drew  his  hostess  toward  him 
more  each  day.  It  had  been  Maria  herself  who 
had  suggested  the  excursion  to  San  Marcello, 
and  Faversham  had  gladly  accepted  the  plan. 

"It's  old,"  she  had  told  him,  "mellow  and  unre- 
membered;  no  one  ever  goes  to  San  Marcello: 
you  will  never  see  a  tourist  there,  and  I  want  you 

go  with  me  and  see  Naples  from  the  belfries." 
27 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Maria  Sant'  Alcione  now  appeared  at  the  door 
of  the  glove  shop. 

"I  know  I  have  been  horribly  long.  Will  you 
excuse  me  for  another  moment?" 

He  begged  her  not  to  hurry  and  she  went  back 
into  the  shop. 

Here  in  Naples  he  had  learned  the  story  of  her 
life.  She  had  married  Sant'  Alcione  when  she 
was  seventeen,  during  one  Roman  season  when 
her  mother  had  chosen  to  introduce  her  to  society 
in  the  capital  of  Italy.  Sant'  Alcione  lived  his 
life  as  he  saw  fit,  treating  Maria  to  flagrant 
scandal,  apparently  indifferent  to  what  she  did 
with  her  own  existence.  At  first  people  said  she 
remained  with  him, for  the  sake  of  her  son,  but 
after  the  little  boy's  death  some  four  years  be 
fore  Faversham's  visit,  every  one  wondered  why 
she  did  not  leave  her  husband.  Many  names  had 
been  linked  with  hers,  but  there  was  no  ground 
work  for  scandal  and  nothing  definite  had  been 
said  against  her.  Faversham  was  not  even  sure 
that  she  loved  admiration,  although  she  flirted 
28 


WOMEN    WHO   ARE    SACRED 

desperately.  At  the  end  of  the  fortnight,  when 
the  worldly  inconsequent  whirl  of  sensual  life 
had  gone  on  around  him  with  complete  indiffer 
ence  to  his  calling  and  his  profession,  as  though 
he  had  been  a  mountebank,  at  the  end  of  that 
time  he  was  sure  in  his  own  mind  of  one  thing: 
that  Maria  Sant'  Alcione  was  blameless. 

"There  is  something  American  about  you  still, 
Contessa,"  he  said,  as  she  rejoined  him. 

They  drove  away  smartly  from  the  glove  shop. 

"However,  I  have  never  lived  in  America,  that 
is,  since  I  was  a  little  child.  I  remember  how  the 
man  used  to  call  strawberries  in  the  streets  of 
New  York  in  springtime,  and  how  I  'roller- 
skated'.  Here  they  tell  me  that  I  am  a  Neapoli 
tan,  and  I  am  never  taken  for  anything  but 
Italian." 

"You're  Anglo-Saxon,"  Faversham  said  slow 
ly.  "I  notice  it  strongly  in  one  thing — your 
superiority.  You  come  of  a  race  that  is  still  on 
top.  I  could  not  but  observe  it  in  your  sureness 
last  night  as  you  talked  with  your  guests." 
29 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Oh,  Italian  women  are  easy  to  down  in  an  ar 
gument!"  The  Contessa  Sant'  Alcione  smiled: 
"Poor  dears,  they  are  all  superstitious." 

"And  you  are  not  superstitious,  Contessa?" 

And  she  answered  quickly:  "Not  at  all.  If 
you  had  lived  here  for  ten  years  as  I  have  lived, 
been  surrounded  by  this" — she  indicated  a  pro 
cession  which  had  stopped  their  carriage,  a 
hearse  of  gaudy  colors  preceded  by  a  line  of 
priests  in  snow-white  garments.  White-masked 
and  hooded,  holding  high  their  great  candela 
bra,  they  followed  the  crucifix.  "And  this" — and 
on  the  other  hand  she  indicated  the  Banco  di 
Lotto — "you  would  be  either  an  ardent  Catholic 
and  go  merrily  on  your  way,  or  be  as  I  am." 

Faversham  did  not  ask  her  what  that  way  was 
and  she  continued:  "My  maid  was  arrested  a 
few  months  ago.  She  stole  two  hundred  lira 
from  my  purse  to  buy  some  old  bones  from  a 
charlatan  who  assured  her  that  the  bones  would 
disclose  to  her  the  successful  number  of  the  lot 
tery." 

30 


WOMEN    WHO    ARE    SACRED 

"Well,  what  will  become  of  her?"  Faversham 
asked. 

"Gigi  has  bought  the  judge,  and  we  are  going 
to  send  her  to  America" — and  with  a  light  smile 
she  added :  "To  the  country  that  is  still  on  top." 

Faversham  exclaimed  warmly:  "That's  aw 
fully  jolly  of  your  husband!" 

And  the  wife  answered  calmly :  "Gioconda  has 
borne  him  a  child." 

Under  her  sunshade  and  its  soft  coloring  the 
face  of  the  woman  was  pale  and  sad.  .The  car 
riage  passed  into  a  shady  side  street  among 
the  Neapolitan  venders  selling  their  various 
wares :  nuts,  oil,  bladders,  tomatoes,  mandarins, 
oranges,  flowers,  bulbs  and  seeds,  books  and  or 
naments,  food, raiment, objects  of  use  and  objects 
of  disgust.  In  front  of  a  low  shop  a  man  stood 
in  full  view  of  the  people  carving  a  colossal 
Christ  in  wood.  The  agonized,  out-stretched 
arms  leaned  against  the  wall  where,  beneath  a 
door  not  five  feet  high,  was  the  entrance  to  the 
wood-carver's  hole. 

31 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Maria  Sant'  Alcione  closed  her  parasol,  for 
the  sun  could  not  penetrate  the  alley,  and  she 
lifted  her  face  to  the  sweet  fresh  air  sweeping  in 
from  the  sea.  The  vigorous  breeze  drowned  the 
smells  that  rose,  the  acrid  odor  of  offal,  and  cook 
ing  food  and  raw  food,  and  the  unmistakable 
odor  of  the  unwashed  poor.  As  she  drew  her 
breath  the  unchained  wind  from  the  bay  came 
divinely  like  hyssop. 


CHAPTER  III 


THERE  was  nothing  in  the  outer  wall  of 
faded  yellow  stucco  to  suggest  that  San 
Marcello  might  be  of  interest  to  the  intruder. 
Faversham,  as  he  paid  the  cocchiere  and  turned 
with  his  companion  to  the  monastery,  saw  the 
long  two-storied  front  of  the  Italian  religious 
house,  beaten  by  the  rains,  seared  by  the  winds, 
kissed  by  the  suns  of  seven  hundred  years. 

The  priest  regarded  the  building  eagerly :  the 
monastical  instinct  was  strong  in  him,  and  he 
felt  a  fraternity  with  the  unknown  brotherhood 
whose  hands,  as  did  his,  had  pressed  against  the 
great  door.  As  the  worm-eaten  nailed  portal 
swung  in,  Maria  and  her  companion  entered  the 
square  of  the  cloisters.  To  the  single  guardian 
who  came  up  to  them,  the  Contessa  Sant*  Alcione 
nodded : 

33 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Good  day,  Francesco,  I  think  I  am  your 
most  faithful  visitor." 

The  old  man,  with  a  profile  as  keen  as  Sa 
vonarola's,  swept  off  his  cap  as  he  greeted  the 
Contessa  Sant'  Alcione. 

"The  eccellenza  is  as  faithful  as  the  birds  ;  she 
returns  with  them  this  year." 

He  took  the  money  Faversham  held  out. 

"If  the  eccellenza  will  listen  in  the  east  clois 
ter  she  will  hear  the  oriole  who  came  back  yester- 
day." 

The  guardian  discreetly  left  them,  replacing 
his  skullcap  on  his  shining  old  head,  yellow  and 
polished  as  ivory,  and  pattered  back  into  his 
lodge,  and  Faversham  with  his  friend  stood  be 
fore  the  gardens  of  San  Marcello  and  its  lovely 
walls. 

Before  them  stretched  some  hundred  feet  of 
old  cloister  garden.  Over  the  marble  fountain 
in  the  center  grew  the  abundant,  clinging,  rov 
ing,  nesting,  flowering  vines.  Through  the  bril- 
34 


MELLOW    SAN    MARCELLO 

liant  leaves  here  and  there  the  vivid  color  of  the 
old  stone  basin  shone  out,  and  the  worn  curb 
gleamed  like  glass.  Orange,  mandarin,  laurel 
and  olive-trees,  bent  with  age  and  ruin,  filled  the 
quadrangle,  and  at  the  east  corner  an  umbrella 
pine,  perfect  to  its  plumy  velvet  crest,  reached 
toward  the  upper  arches  of  the  second  story.  On 
three  sides  -of  the  garden  stretched  the  cloisters 
and  their  arches,  the  white  and  yellow  stucco 
flaking  off  here  and  there,  the  colors  vague,  in 
tones  as  soft  as  those  of  Egyptian  monuments ; 
and  along  the  west  rose  the  high  balcony,  its 
terrace,  its  railings,  its  windows  and  balustrades 
in  tender  tones  of  white  and  pink. 

"From  it  we  shall  see  the  port  and  Naples," 
Maria  Sant'  Alcione  said,  "and  to  the  left  are 
the  belfries.  Come,  Father  Faversham !  Naples, 
I  think,  is  always  at  its  best  seen  from  this  place 
of  prayer  and  meditation."  She  spoke  lightly 
and  as  if  she  wished  to  please  her  companion 
with  her  attitude  of  mind.  "These  centuries  of 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

prayer  must  have  cast  some  kind  of  good  into 
this  city  of  broil,  and  passion,  and  beauty." 

"I  am  sure,"  returned  the  priest,  "that  no 
prayer  was  ever  said  by  human  lips  that  did  not 
bring  its  immediate  answer  on  the  same  air." 

"Oh !"  she  cried  sharply,  and  stopped.  They 
had  walked  together  toward  the  terrace.  "How 
can  you  say  such  a  thing  as  that?  I  prayed  for 
my  little  boy's  life  as  no  woman  ever  prayed  be 
fore.  He  died  as  I  prayed."  To  herself  she 
said :  "I  have  prayed  for  other  things." 

They  had  come  to  the  first  steps  of  the  flight 
of  stone  stairs  leading  to  the  terrace.  Maria  laid 
one  hand  on  the  mossy  balustrade  and  in  the 
other  she  held  her  parasol. 

Faversham  replied:  "I  mean  just  what  I  say, 
Contessa  Sant'  Alcione.  Indeed,  I  think  your 
prayer  for  your  child  was  answered  then." 

"Oh,  how,  Father  Faversham !" 

"You  asked  for  the  boy's  life?" 

"Passionately." 

"Life,"  said  the  priest,  "is  immortal,  my  dear 
36 


MELLOW    SAN    MARCELLO 

friend.      It   was   never   taken   from  your  little 
child." 

Shie  exclaimed,  going  slowly  up  the  stairway : 
"Please  don't  be  subtle  with  me,  don't!     My 
mind  is  too  tired  for  religious  subtleties." 

He  followed  her  along  the  brick  and  marble 
parterre  of  the  old  terrace:  on  one  side  lay  the 
cloisters  and  the  garden,  on  the  other  the  wide 
milky  floor  of  the  stainless  sea.  From  brown 
rock  and  fortress,  from  port,  from  soft  promon 
tory  of  the  Castel  dell'  Novo  around  Vesuvius, 
lay  the  motionless  waters  on  whose  multicolored 
surface  was  mirrored  in  perfection  the  fisher's 
sail.  Ischia  and  Capri  lay  like  anchored  ships  in 
the  mist,  and  the  shores  were  sown  with  villages 
as  with  the  petals  of  scattered  flowers.  On  the 
line  of  the  rolling  hills,  on  the  stupendous  moun 
tain  and  its  wounded  crest,  on  the  vision  of  that 
mild  and  most  inconstant  sea,  Father  Faver- 
sham's  glance  rested  and  then  came  back  to  Na 
ples  and  the  port  and  the  humanity  as  it  lay  at 
his  feet. 

37 


THE    BROKEN    BELt 

Naples  coiled  and  wound  and  clung  beneath 
the  monastery  walls.  Naples  cried  up  to  them, 
called  up  to  them,  crying,  singing,  praying, 
groaning;  Naples  laughed  and  cursed  up  to 
them,  as  it  had  laughed  and  cursed  for  centuries 
below  its  stones.  Directly  within  their  vision 
was  the  Porta  Capuana  quarter,  the  poorest, 
vilest,  most  vivid  part  of  the  city.  Along  the 
narrow  alleys  strung  the  banners  of  drying 
clothes.  Red  and  yellow  and  blue,  these  rags, 
irrevocably  stained  by  dirt  and  dust,  hung  dis 
consolately  or  fluttered  arrogantly  in  the  breeze. 
And  line  by  line  with  them  ran  the  crimson  and 
the  grape-like  banners  of  the  dyers'  stuffs,  hung 
out  from  the  stews  and  purlieus  of  the  crowded 
city.  The  houses  hugged  one  another,  built  pell- 
mell  of  every  color  and  tint,  yellow,  shell-white, 
here  and  there  their  ranks  disturbed  by  the 
stones  of  an  ancient  church,  and  everywhere 
hung  out  balconies  crowded  with  the  living. 

Above  the  ceaseless  seething  tide  of  the  living, 
there  was  the  dull  clamor  of  a  bell  from  a  hid- 
38 


den  tower,  a  cloaked,  indistinct  pasan  drowned  by 
the  city's  ringing,  by  the  human  note,  more 
heaven-reaching,  indeed,  than  the  bronze  res 
onance. 

Maria  Sant'  Alcione,  leaning  on  the  high  wall, 
murmured  aloud : 

"Down  there  is  the  devil,  Father  Faversham, 
and  beyond  is  the  deep,  deep  sea,"  and  she  smiled 
slightly.  "Perhaps  we  are  between  them,  even 
though  in  this  holy  place.  Do  you  see  the  beau 
tiful  tower  of  Santa  Maria  del  Carmine?" 

She  pointed  to  the  soft  lines  of  the  old  tower, 
a  tower  battered,  as  it  were,  by  time,  beaten  and 
blown  against  by  the  winds  of  age. 

"I  adore  that  church,"  she  mused,  "it  looks  to 
me  as  though  it  had  been  beaten  upon  by  prayer, 
as  though  the  centuries  had  prayed  against  it,  as 
though  the  lips  of  the  people  had  kissed  it  nearly 
away.  There  is  a  miraculous  Virgin  in  Santa 
Maria:  sailors  rush  to  confess  to  her,  and  no 
where  in  Naples  are  there  so  many  confessions 
and  so  many  poor." 

39 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Faversham  watched  her  intently  as  she  leaned 
against  the  balustrade,  her  soft  arm  and  hand 
on  the  cold  stone,  her  face  musing.  The  red  rose 
shone  bravely  against  the  fur  of  her  hat,  the  red 
camellia  flushed  against  her  dark  dress,  and  the 
fine  red  mounted  under  her  pale  skin.  A  more 
desirable  woman,  one  more  made  for  love,  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  imagine. 

Faversham  said :  "You  speak  a  great  deal  of 
prayer,  Contessa,  for  one  who  doesn't  believe  in 
the  subtleties  of  religion,"  and  before  she  could 
respond,  went  on :  "If  after  all,  our  belief 
proves  to  be  a  mistake  and  a  delusion,  if  all  of  us 
who  pray  are  fated  to  find  ourselves  tricked, 
isn't  it  curious  that  religion  and  prayer  and  faith 
still  continue  to  transform  the  world?  Take  Na 
ples  for  example,  with  its  sensuous  beauty  and 
its  utter  charm:  there  is  nothing  from  one  end 
of  it  to  the  other  so  wonderful  as  the  picture  of 
that  church  down  there  with  its  walls  beaten 
upon  by  the  breath  of  seven  hundred  years  of 
prayer !" 

40 


MELLOW    SAN    MARCELLO 

Maria  heard  what  he  said  through  more  ma 
terial  thoughts. 

"There  is  an  attractive  seat  there,"  Faver- 
sham  pointed  to  an  old  stone  bench  in  a  corner 
of  the  terrace.  "Let's  go  over  and  sit  a  bit  in 
the  sunlight." 

He  tooK  the  corner,  leaning  his  shoulder 
against  the.  rail,  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  pre 
facing  his  words  by  a  charming  smile,  said: 
"When  you  suggested  that  we  should  come  here 
to-day,  I  was  sure  that  it  was  not  so  much  to  give 
me  this  esthetic  pleasure  as  to  talk  with  me.  I 
hope  I  am  right.  Remember  that  I  was  your 
brother's  dearest  friend." 

"It  is  more  or  less  true,"  Maria  Sant'  Alcione 
said  slowly.  She  did  not  continue  and  Faver- 
sham  was  disappointed;  and  as  she  remained 
silent  a  bird  behind  them  in  the  olive-tree  broke 
into  subdued  singing. 

"There,"  she  lifted  her  finger.  "Listen  to  the 
bird:  isn't  it  delicious?" 

She  did  not  seem  to  resent  her  friend's  direct 
41 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

scrutiny,  but  she  kept  her  eyes  fastened  on  the 
sea,  and  as  the  priest  watched  her  his  expression 
became  severe  and  the  smile  faded. 

"Well,  Contessa,  since  you  do  not  speak,  and 
this  is  probably  the  only  occasion  I  shall  have  to 
be  alone  with  you,  I  am  going  to  take  advantage 
of  it!" 

"Look,"  said  his  hostess,  holding  out  her  right 
hand  where  the  glove  was  sewn  across.  "See  the 
scar,  how  it  runs !  It's  the  way  I  am  always  do 
ing,  mending  up  torn  things.  I  am  weak  and 
sentimental,  for  I  haven't  strength  of  character 
to  throw  away  the  old  and  begin  the  new.  I 
know  what  you  are  going  to  begin  with,  Father 
Faversham.  You  think  I  am  a  moral  coward  to 
submit  as  I  do  to  disgrace." 

"I  was  not,  and  have  not  been,  thinking  of 
your  husband.  I  am  thinking  of  you." 

She  said  slowly :  "I  know  it,  I  have  seen  your 
eyes  upon  me." 

A  lizard  ran  out  from  between  the  stones  into 
the  sunlight  and  basked  a  few  feet  from  the  tip 


MELLOW    SAN    MARCELLO 

of  the  Contessa  Sant'  Alcione's  shoe.  "Until 
last  year,"  she  spoke  as  if  her  words  were  un 
willingly  drawn  from  her,  "until  last  year  there 
was  more  than  one  tie,  now  there  is  only  one.  He 
gave  me  my  child,  I  am  grateful  for  that." 

"I  understand,"  murmured  the  priest. 

"Each  year  it  becomes  more  difficult.  It  is  not 
easy  to  rush  out  of  one's  own  house  and  leave 
one's  husband."  She  turned  her  eyes  fully  on  Fa- 
versham ;  her  color  deepened.  "He  has  never  un 
til  this  year  brought  his  infidelities  under  our 
roof.  You  see  how  degraded  I  am.  I  am  indiffer 
ent.  I  shall  remain  as  I  am.  Of  course  there  is  no 
divorce  in  our  country.  I  must  remain  as  I  am." 

The  priest  after  a  few  seconds  repeated:  "As 
you  are  ?"  Then  said :  "That  is  what  no  one  of 
us  can  do !  There  is  no  stationary  state,  my  dear 
friend ;  it  is  one  thing  or  another  every  day." 

She  tried  to  change  her  mood  and  speak  reck 
lessly,  lightly.  "You  have  observed  our  life  for 
a  fortnight !  You  can  judge  pretty  well  what  it 
is  likely  to  be,  Father  Faversham." 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Turning  to  the  left,  where  the  round  towers  of 
the  basilica  rose,  he  asked : 

"Aren't  those  the  belfries  below  the  cupolas?" 

"Yes.  Shall  we  go  and  see  them?  We  must 
wind  about  through  the  outer  galleries." 

The  enameled  roofs  of  the  two  immense  basil 
icas  shone  in  the  sunlight  like  the  backs  of  giant 
turtles  with  blue  and  green  and  yellow  scales. 
The  light  squandered  itself  on  the  polished  tiling 
and  refracted  until  the  balls  were  like  single 
gems. 

Maria  led  the  way  up  the  narrow  staircase  to 
the  higher  galleries  of  the  inner  towers  and 
finally  got  out  on  to  the  roof  of  the  monastery 
among  the  little  belfries,  close  to  the  basilica, 
rotundas  and  the  gleaming  tiles.  All  Naples  lay 
below,  from  port  to  Posilipo,  and  on  the  hillside, 
against  its  background  of  cedars,  the  Villa  Cas- 
tel  dell'  Oro  cut  its  square  of  snow.  The  priest 
laid  his  hat  on  the  wall,  and  the  sunlight  shone  on 
his  blond  head,  where  the  hair  was  slightly  au 
burn  and  inclined  to  curl. 


MELLOW    SAN    MARCELLO 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  he  said,  "and  I  shall 
think  of  it  in  my  lonely  little  parish  on  the  Irish 
coast." 

"I  hope  it  will  bring  you  pleasant  memories, 
Father  Faversham." 

For  several  months  no  man  had  been  with 
Maria  alone  like  this  without  a  sentimental  issue 
at  stake.  She  had  welcomed  Faversham  eagerly 
for  her  brother's  sake  and  had  grown  to  admire 
him  deeply  for  his  own.  She  felt  at  once  an  in 
timacy  with  him  and  a  great  reserve. 

"We  are  taught  that  pride  is  wicked,  aren't 
we?"  she  said  suddenly  to  him.  "Eighteen 
months  ago  I  took  my  husband  back,  Father  Fa 
versham;  I  mean  that  I  forgot  myself  and  my 
self-respect,  I  forgot  the  horrors  and  lies  be 
tween  us  and  I  took  him  back.  The  horrible 
part  of  it  is" — with  one  of  her  slender  fingers 
she  touched  the  seam  that  ran  across  her  glove — 
"the  horrible  part  of  it  is  that  I  found  that  I 
really  cared  something  for  him  still,  and  you 
know  what  can  be  done  with  a  guarded  flame." 
45 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  the  scarred  palm  of  her 
glove.  "I  was  looking  every  day  for  something 
that  never  came,  for  beauty  to  rise  from  ashes, 
for  what  I  had  come  back  for  .  .  .  Wait," 
she  said,  "don't  speak,  for  I  know  that  is  not  the 
right  way  to  hope."  She  smiled  faintly.  "Oh, 
I  found  out  lots  of  ways,  but  they  were  all  routes 
barrees.  Gigi  didn't  really  want  me,  never  has 
really  wanted  me.  It's  a  pity.  I  abased  myself 
and  accepted  everything."  She  abruptly  turned 
the  subject.  "Look  at  this  lovely  bell,  Father 
Faversham.  I  came  to  San  Marcello  one  day, 
and  I  broke  my  heart  here  for  something  that 
could  never,  never  be  restored,  for  the  extin 
guished  lamp,  for  the  fire  that  was  trodden  un 
derfoot  .  .  ." 

In  a  small  tower  near  hung  a  bell  of  green  and 
golden  bronze.  Preserved  in  its  stony  hood  from 
rain,  it  hung  like  a  green  lily  in  its  shelter. 
Drawing  off  her  glove  Maria  laid  her  bare  right 
hand  on  the  bell. 

"Look,  Father  Faversham,  isn't  it  a  beautiful 
46 


MELLOW    SAN    MARCELLO 

bit  of  bronze!  So  perfect,  so  finely  molded;  no 
eyes  ever  see  it  here,  no  one  ever  rings  it  any 
more.  It  has  not  been  tolled  for  a  hundred 
years.  I  never  come  here  but  I  swing  it  so. 
Listen !" 

Maria  touched  the  bell,  the  tongue  struck  the 
metal  and  evoked  a  muffled  sound. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  and  swung  it  again.  "How 
terrible!  The  tone  is  spoiled  and  it  used  to  be 
like  honey !  Sweeter  than  the  oriole  down  there 
in  the  olive-trees."  Maria  passed  her  hand  about 
the  bell  lovingly  as  though  it  were  a  human 
thing.  "Oh,  how  sad !  My  beautiful  bell !" 

On  the  opposite  side  from  the  neck  of  the  bowl 
she  saw  now  that  a  fissure  split  the  bronze.  The 
priest  watched  her  as  she  stood,  troubled  by  the 
ruin  of  this  object  of  which  she  had  romantically 
made  a  fetish.  He  said  consolingly : 

"The  tone  is  very  sweet  still;  not  pure,  of 
course,  but  sweet.  Strike  it  again." 

"Don't  ask  me  to;  it  is  a  broken  note,  sad  as 
tears.  If  you  had  heard  the  other  you  would 
47 


realize  how  this  jars.  I  never  want  to  hear  the 
tragic  sound  again.  I  wonder  what  brutal  shock 
did  it." 

Faversham  almost  thought  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let's  go  down.  This  dis 
appointment  has  spoiled  San  Marcello  for  me!" 

"No,"  he  remonstrated,  "not  yet,"  and  put  his 
hand  out  with  an  authoritative  gesture.  "My 
child,  there  is  something  here  more  beautiful 
than  the  bell,  something  that  one  touch,  one  con 
tact  with  wrong,  can  spoil  for  ever.  Women 
have  wept  their  souls  out  to  regain  just  what 
you  are  on  the  point  of  destroying.  I  have 
watched  you,  I  see  and  I  know.  Don't  throw 
away  your  soul,  Maria  Sant'  Alcione,  don't !" 

The  priest  said  nothing  further.  He  waited 
silently,  not  expecting  her  to  speak,  his  hands 
clasped  against  his  t>reast,  as  though  he  wore  be 
neath  his  dress  some  emblem  which  he  pressed  to 
the  flesh ;  a  prayer  passed  his  lips  and  there  was 
a  transfiguration  of  his  expression  as  he  bent 
48 


MELLOW    SAN    MARCELLO 

toward  his  companion  and  made  over  her  a  rapid 
sign  of  the  cross. 

Maria,  without  response  except  that  she  bowed 
her  head  with  meekness,  turned  to  take  again  the 
way  by  which  they  had  come  toward  the  inner 
staircase  leading  to  the  cloisters. 

Her  carriage,  which  she  had  ordered  to  come 
for  them,  was  at  the  door.  She  told  the  man  to 
drive  slowly  home  by  the  way  of  Posilipo,  and 
when  Father  Faversham  closed  the  door,  she 
leaned  back  in  her  corner  and  he  saw  that  she 
was  weeping.  After  a  few  minutes  she  dried  her 
eyes. 

"You  may  pity  me,"  she  said.  "I  am  utterly 
wretched;  but  don't  be  alarmed  for  my  soul.  I 
pass  my  time  as  stupidly  as  possible." 

"Believe  me,"  replied  the  young  ecclesiastic, 
"I  have  thought  nothing  else.  But  you  have  no 
temptations." 

"You  think  so?" 

"None  real  enough  to  endanger  a  woman  such 
as  you  are." 

49 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

She  murmured :    "Perhaps  you  are  right." 
"I  am  thinking,"  he  said,  "of  the  time  when 
you  will  love  and  when  you  will  be  really  loved." 
"Why  do  you  speak  of  such  a  possibility?" 
"Because  it  is  the  only  thing  to  fear." 
She  echoed  ardently:     "To   fear!     Why,   if 
such  a  thing  came  to  me  in  the  tragedy  of  my 
life,  do  you  for  a  moment  imagine  that  I  would 
not  seize  it,  thank  heaven,  and  .   .   ." 

"Lose  your  soul,"  finished  the  priest  gently 
but  firmly. 

She  repulsed  him  gently :  "Don't  confuse  re 
ligion  with  the  big,  elemental,  natural  things  of 
life.  If  you  only  knew,  if  you  only  understood, 
if  you  only  guessed  how  I  watch  and  wait  for  the 
right  to  live,  to  exist  .  .  .  Why  do  I  talk  to 
you  like  this?" — she  interrupted  herself — "you 
already  think  me  a  gross  materialist  and  trem 
ble  for  my  soul." 

Her   companion's   calm   tranquillity   was   un 
shaken  by  her  storm  of  feeling.     He  answered 
mildly:      "I    do   not   tremble,    Contessa."      He 
50 


MELLOW    SAN    MARCELLO 

turned  to  her  with  kindness  and  compassion  as  he 
spoke,  and  she  exclaimed  inconsistently: 

"Ah,  well,  you  may  tremble  if  you  like,  for  if 
it  ever  does  come,  I  shall  be  a  great  sinner." 

"A  great  saint  perhaps,"  he  returned,  "there 
is  the  choice." 

She  made  an  impatient  gesture,  and  sat  back 
in  her  corner,  musing. 

Through  his  window  Faversham  tranquilly 
regarded  the  crowded  streets  through  which  they 
made  their  way,  and  his  expression  was  benig 
nant  as  he  looked  on  the  groups  of  children  and 
the  squalid  poor,  where  Naples  lived  its  outdoor 
life,  half  naked  in  the  sunlight.  As  they  passed 
on  their  way  up  the  Posilipo  hill,  the  power  of 
his  silent  peace  and  serenity  reached  his  compan 
ion's  spirit  and  affected  it  as  his  words  would 
have  failed  to  do.  Before  they  turned  in  at  the 
villa  gates,  she  said  to  him : 

"I  want  to  go  away  from  Naples  and  to  go 
away  alone.  Where  can  I  go,  Father  Faver 
sham  ;  what  can  I  do  ?" 

51 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Do  you  know  any  one  in  trouble?" 

She  thought  for  a  second.  "Yes,  yes,  some 
one  I  want  to  help  and  whom  Gigi  would  make 
no  objection  to  my  helping.  I  could  go,  but  it's 
a  long  journey." 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  the  priest  cheer 
fully.  "Climb  high  and  you  will  see  further, 
Contessa." 

"It's  my  little  son's  nurse,  a  peasant  from  the 
Upper  Tiber  country.  I  had  to  let  her  go  back 
to  her  husband  and  her  children.  Otherwise  I 
would  have  kept  her  for  ever,  but  I  have  heard 
that  she  is  very  poor,  and  I  should  adore  going 
to  Le  Baize." 

"Do  so,"  Faversham  said,  "by  all  means  if 
your  husband  will  consent." 

"He  will  be  delighted.  Not  only  will  it  leave 
him  free,  but  he  loved  his  son  and  anything  that 
had  to  do  with  little  Sandro  .  .  ." 

"Ah,"  murmured  the  priest,  "he  was  a  good 
father?" 

"Yes,  he  was  perfect  with  his  child.  Le 
52 


MELLOW    SAN    MARCELLO 

Baize,"  she  continued,  "lies  at  the  source  of  the 
Tiber.  It  is  a  tiny  little  village.  I  don't  know 
how  to  go,  but  I  long  to  make  the  pilgrimage." 

Faversham  turned  to  her  with  a  smile  that  was 
like  a  benediction. 

"Go,"  he  said,  "and  find  the  immaculate  source 
of  a  great  river.  It  is  a  beautiful  pilgrimage." 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    FRIEND    OF    THE    CONTE 

SANT'  ALCIONE  took  a  keen  interest  in 
his  wife's  prospective  journey  to  Tuscany 
and  Umbria,  and  he  devoted  half  an  hour  of  his 
time  over  his  morning  chocolate  to  making  out 
a  little  itinerary  for  her.  As  her  journey  took 
her  through  the  village  of  Pieve  San  Stefano, 
Sant'  Alcione  put  his  finger  to  his  head  and  tried 
to  think  what  the  name  recalled. 

"Maria,"  he  called,  "see !" 

His  wife's  rooms  were  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  villa.  Gigi  Sant'  Alcione  pretended  to  ad 
mire  his  wife  extravagantly.  He  paid  her  com 
pliments,  always  adding  to  his  friends  the  com 
mon  excuse — "e  fredda  gelata — cold  as  a  stone." 

He  sent  his  man  to  pray  the  contessa  to  come 
to  him,  and  Maria  found  her  husband  in  his 
54 


'A    FRIEND    OF    THE    CONTE 

dressing-gown,  with  guide-books  and  maps  on 
the  table  before  him. 

"So  early  ready  to  go  out?"  he  asked.  She 
wore  her  hat  and  held  her  gloves  in  her  hand. 
"You  are  becoming  an  athletic  woman,  Maria, 
you  will  grow  thin."  He  smoked  an  Egyptian 
cigarette,  flicking  the  ashes  into  his  empty  cup. 
"Maria,  you-  pass  through  Pieve  San  Stefano." 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  do." 

"And  also  through  Borgo  San  Sepolcro,  but 
the  end  of  the  journey  is  at  Pieve.  God  help 
you  after  that,  but  while  you  wait  for  celestial 
aid,  I  want  you  to  look  up  Allesandro  della  Gan- 
dara,  an  old  friend  of  mine,  as  Padre  Faversham 
was  a  friend  of  your  brother's." 

His  wife  replied  indifferently.  It  would  have 
required  more  than  a  name  to  give  her  a  friendly 
interest  in  her  husband's  companions ;  indeed, 
meeting  any  one  spoiled  the  idea  of  solitude  and 
charm  which  had  been  the  attraction  of  her  pros 
pective  pilgrimage. 

"I  will  give  you  a  note  to  Sandro ;  he  will  look 
55 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

after  you.    The  poor  devil  must  know  the  coun 
try  pretty  well  by  this." 

It  was  a  pain  to  Maria  always  to  hear  her  be 
loved  little  son's  name  on  any  lips,  and  in  order 
to  put  an  end  to  the  interview  she  told  her  hus 
band  that  she  must  go  and  would  see  him  at 
luncheon. 

Sant'  Alcione,  somewhat  stirred  by  this  inci 
dent  from  his  habitual  indolence,  rose,  went  to 
his  desk,  took  out  of  the  drawer  an  album  of 
photographs. 

"See,"  he  said  delighted,  "Delia  Gandara  sent 
me  this  years  ago.  Handsome,  isn't  he?  Poor 
Sandro !  Poor  devil !" 

Maria  glanced  at  the  photograph  and  laid  it 
down.  It  was  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man 
about  thirty  years  of  age.  His  eyes  looked 
straight  out  from,  the  picture  to  the  eyes  of 
Maria  Sant'  Alcione.  The  face  was  intensely 
sad  and  appealing. 

"Good-looking  fellow,  Maria,  isn't  he?" 

"He  doesn't  look  happy,"  returned  his  wife. 
56 


A    FRIEND    OF    THE    CONTE 

"Poor  Sandro,"  her  husband  repeated,  "there's 
a  story  for  you.  As  brilliant  a  chap  as  ever  you 
could  know — women  mad  about  him — preparing 
for  a  diplomatic  career,  went  up  to  Umbria  on 
some  tomfool's  errand — he  was  a  rank  senti 
mentalist — kissed  on  a  summer's  evening  a  peas 
ant  girl  in  the  vineyards — took  his  peccadillo  to 
heart  and  married  her — married  her  there  and 
then.  Just  think  of  it!  He  has  lived  in  that 
God-forsaken  desolate  country  for  ten  years, 
lost  his  career  and  his  fortune:  his  people  cut 
him  off." 

She  lifted  up  the  picture  and  said  briefly : 
"If  he  loved  her  I  daresay  he  has  no  regrets." 
"Pouf !"  exclaimed  her  husband.  "A  brilliant 
man  of  the  world  living  like  a  peasant  in  San 
Stefano  with  a  field-hand!  Why,  it's  the  most 
asinine,  disgusting,  pathetic  story  I  ever  heard. 
Looks  happy,  doesn't  he?" 

She  laid  the  photograph  down  again.  The 
eyes  seemed  to  call  to  her. 

"Father  Faversham  leaves  before  luncheon.    I 
57 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

shall  drive  him  to  the  station,  as  you  do  not  seem 
to  have  thought  of  doing  so." 

"Oh,"  returned  Sant'  Alcione  reproachfully, 
"and  I  have  been  making  out  your  trip  for  you, 
Maria!" 

"Forgive  me.  You  are  really  very  kind, 
Gigi." 

"You  will  get  the  automobile  in  Rome,  and 
take  a  guide  from  there  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  hear  her  answer. 


CHAPTER  V 

FREE    AND    ALONE 

AT  length,  alone  in  the  train  for  Arezzo, 
she  hid  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage  fear 
ing  that  at  the  last  moment  something  might  pre 
vent  her  journey.  On  the  opposite  seat  she  ar 
ranged  her  few  pieces  of  hand  luggage  marked 
with  her  initials  and  coronet,  and  they  were  the 
sole  companions  of  her  journey.  She  had  left 
her  maid  and  had  sent  her  motor  back  to  Naples. 
The  idea  of  the  solitary  pilgrimage  appealed  to 
her  to  such  an  extent  that  she  trembled  lest  a 
catastrophe  might  prevent  her  flight. 

At  the  traveling  agencies  no  one  could  tell  her 
where  Le  Baize  was  except  that  it  poised  on  some 
extreme  peak  of  the  Apennines — hung  in  the 
unknown.  Unused  to  making  inquiries  in  public 
offices,  the  contessa  listened  blankly  to  the  clerk 
59 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

who  told  her  that  it  was  a  perilous  trip  at  this 
time  of  the  year,  and  that,  after  all,  there  were 
no  means  of  reaching  Monte  Fumaiolo  save  on 
horseback. 

"It  is  where  dear  Maria  Goanelli  is,  at  all 
events.  She  got  there,  poor  dear,  and  I  can ;  and 
perhaps  something  will  happen  so  that  I  never 
get  there.  That  would  solve  the  problem !" 

In  her  compartment  of  the  Arezzo  train  she 
was  alone  as  she  had  not  been  since  her  marriage. 
As  the  cars  rolled  out  she  drew  a  breath  of  re 
lief — as  though  she  were  being1  rolled  out  of  her 
own  existence  and  into  another. 

Her  husband  expected  her  to  be  absent  about 
a  fortnight. 

"No  matter  how  primitive  I  find  it,"  she  had 
told  him,  "I  shall  rusticate  with  Maria  Goanelli 
for  a  few  days,  and  take  a  fresh-air  cure." 

She   reflected  bitterly   that   Gigi   would  find 

plenty  of  ways  to  pass  his  time,  and  her  mind 

went  to  the  woman  whom  she  was  going  to  see, 

the  full-breasted  girl  from  the  Apennines  with 

60 


FREE    AND   ALONE 

eyes  like  a  cow's,  and  breath  as  sweet,  the  girl 
who  had  kissed  her  son,  nursed  him,  loved  him 
and  wept  over  his  flower-covered  bed.  She  had 
five  hours  to  go  to  Arezzo,  and  where  to  stop  she 
had  no  idea.  She  looked  in  her  Baedeker  at  hotels 
starred,  and  glanced  at  the  other  occupant  of 
her  carriage.  He  was  a  Frenchman ;  his  travel 
ing  rug  across  his  knees,  and  his  paper  at  his 
side,  he  was  enjoying  an  Italian  outing.  He  was 
especially  enjoying  Maria  Sant'  Alcione,  at 
whom  he  had  been  looking  with  delight.  He 
hoped  no  one  would  disturb  them.  The  good 
taste  of  her  quiet  dress,  her  gentle  adjustment 
of  her  belongings,  her  peaceful  meditation  and 
her  unusual  beauty  made  her  an  agreeable  diver 
sion  for  the  Latin.  It  was  not  the  habit  of 
Italian  women  of  Maria's  class  to  travel  alone. 
He  thought  her  Italian  for  he  had  heard  her 
speak  to  the  guard.  She  was  an  Italian  woman 
of  fashion.  Where  was  she  going  alone? 

As  she  glanced  up  and  met  his  eyes  she  con 
tracted  her  brows  and  looked  quickly  away. 
61 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Pardon,  Madame,"  and  he  lifted  his  hat,  "do 
you  wish  the  window  open  or  shall  I  close  it  for 
you?" 

She  replied  without  turning  her  head,  and  his 
attention  created  the  first  disturbance  of  the 
solitary  journey  of  which  she  was  so  jealous. 
The  Frenchman  arranged  himself  comfortably 
in  his  corner;  he  was  composedly  reading  his 
paper.  Maria  laughed  at  herself,  her  morbid 
nervousness,  and  closed  her  eyes  serenely.  In  her 
hand-satchel  opposite  she  had  a  package  of  let 
ters  which  had  come  to  her  every  day  in  Rome, 
during  her  stay  there.  They  were  from  the  Mag- 
giore  Corti.  She  had  not  opened  one  of  them. 
She  had  fetched  them  with  her  to  destroy  at  her 
leisure. 

When  she  had  said  to  Faversham  that  she 
wanted  to  go  away  alone,  she  had  given  expres 
sion  to  the  desire  that  had  haunted  her  many 
times  since  the  first  year  of  her  married  life,  and 
these  last  months  she  had  longed  for  it  more  in 
tensely.  The  miserable  pitiful  failure  of  her 
62 


FREE    AND    ALONE 

life,  her  little  child's  death  and  the  mockery  of 
her  existence,  had  wounded  her  spirit  till  its 
wings  were  fretted  with  unhappiness  and  deep 
with  the  dust  of  material  things.  If  she  could 
have  left  her  husband  at  first  it  would  have  been 
chiefly  to  escape  his  infidelities  that  she  would 
have  made  her  flight.  Now  her  reasons  were 
more  complex.  She  had  become  to  herself  an  en 
tity  that  could  not  be  ignored.  She  wanted  to  be 
alone,  not  to  escape  from  herself  as  a  woman  more 
actually  a  sinner  might  have  wished  to  do ;  of  late 
she  had  developed  fast.  She  read  voraciously; 
she  wrote  pages  in  the  long  evenings  when  Lent 
forbade  festivities,  and  in  the  absence  of  her 
husband,  when  she  became  an  anchoret  and  re 
fused  to  see  the  Neapolitans.  One  after  another 
she  had  received  the  men  of  her  husband's  set, 
had  encouraged  them  to  make  love  to  her,  from 
indifference  and  desperation,  from  a  spirit  of  re 
venge  or  a  spirit  of  conquest.  She  had  let  more 
than  one  hope  everything,  and  more  than  one 
had  cause  to  call  her  heartless.  She  had  the 
63 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

reputation  of  being  a  cold  and  disappointing 
woman,  and  her  husband's  faults  were  less  se 
verely  judged  in  consequence. 

The  motion  of  the  train  soothed  her.  She  fell 
really  asleep,  and  then  within  a  few  miles  of 
Arezzo  woke,  to  find  her  knees  covered  by  a  fur 
rug,  the  shades  of  the  windows  carefully  adjusted 
— she  was  alone.  The  Frenchman,  after  having 
made  her  comfortable,  had  gone  into  the  smok 
ing-carriage. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    BRIDGE    OF    LIFE 

CERTAIN  places  are  like  bridges  taking 
us  from  the  old  to  the  new,  and  Maria 
afterward  thought  of  Arezzo  as  a  crossing 
of  the  stream  of  life.  Her  room  in  the  Al- 
bergo  Grande  was  the  best  the  hotel  offered, 
and  as  cold  as  a  tomb;  moreover,  a  sudden 
gusty  wind  and  snowy  rain  broke  as  she  left  the 
train,  and  the  window  was  wet  with  the  March 
storm.  The  eager  little  chambermaid  with  her 
chapped  hands  and  her  pitiful  downtrodden 
shoes,  heaped  what  comfort  she  might  upon  the 
traveler,  lighting  a  smoky  fire  that  belched  from 
the  porcelain  stove,  piling  eider-down  quilts  like 
a  sunset  on  the  bed,  and  offering  a  pot  of  tea 
that  smelt  of  the  haystack  and  tasted  like  a  bit 
ter  tonic !  Opening  the  window  to  let  in  the  cold 
sharp  air  and  the  threads  of  rainy  snow,  Maria 
65 


thought  of  the  snow  upon  the  mountains  which 
the  Romans  had  warned  her  against,  and  shiv 
ered.  She  was  accustomed  to  no  discomfort,  she 
rarely  even  unbuttoned  her  own  shoes,  and  re 
luctantly  she  shut  the  door  against  the  little 
chambermaid,  realizing  that  if  she  had  attained 
the  solitude  so  intensely  desired,  she  was  also  face 
to  face  with  its  discomforts. 

She  sat  down  before  her  bitter  tea,  the  blue 
milk  and  the  fly-specked  sugar.  She  was  faint, 
she  had  left  Rome  at  noon  and  it  was  now  eight 
o'clock,  but  she  could  not  drink  the  tea.  She 
pushed  away  the  tray,  took  up  her  little  bag  and 
drew  out  the  letters  of  Corti.  The  big  dashing 
handwriting  she  knew  in  all  its  forms,  as  she 
knew  the  frank  simple  soul  who  had  loved  her 
for  years.  She  broke  the  first  seal,  drew  out  the 
first  letter.  .  .  .  "Your  Giovanni."  A  faint 
smile  touched  her  beautiful  lips.  He  was  incapa 
ble  of  saying  anything  new.  She  stuffed  the  let 
ters  through  the  door  of  the  stove,  down  on  the 
black  uncompromising  fire,  and  they  finally 
66 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    LIFE 

burned  away  close  to  the  only  warmth  that  they 
ever  kindled.  Then  she  put  on  her  furs  and  went 
down  to  the  dining-room,  driven  out  of  retire 
ment  by  smoke,  cold  and  hunger,  and  with  a 
sense  of  desolation  to  which  she  could  give  no 
name. 

Several  degrees  colder  than  her  bedroom,  the 
dining-room  suggested  a  place  where  one  waits 
to  be  disappointed.  So  she  found  when  she  or 
dered  eggs  and  chicken  that  there  was  nothing 
on  hand  but  sausage !  She  asked  for  soup  and  a 
bottle  of  wine,  and  when  the  simple  supper  was 
served  to  her  she  ate  hungrily  of  hot  macaroni 
broth  and  comforted  herself  with  a  glass  of  Chi- 
anti:  the  bread  went  for  meat.  She  took  delight 
in  her  hunger  and  was  amused  to  find  that  the 
coarse  fare  satisfied  her  and  tasted  better  than 
her  dinners  at  Naples  shared  by  the  people  who 
were  doing  her  wrong  and  who,  at  a  word  from 
her,  would  have  done  her  still  greater  wrong ! 

"This  is  the  kind  of  food  that  ascetics  live 
on,"  she  thought.  "Father  Favcrsham  eats  noth- 
67 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

ing,  and  I  doubt  if  he  ever  tastes  such  excellent 
wine  as  this." 

She  turned  it  in  her  glass,  where  it  shone  red 
as  fire,  and  shivered.  They  had  fetched  only  a 
basin  of  charcoal  to  warm  her ;  she  drew  her  furs 
more  closely.  Father  Faversham  and  his  words 
she  did  not  permit  herself  to  recall.  Far  off  in 
Le  Baize,  where  the  rains  and  the  snows  would 
meet  her,  she  would  make  a  retreat  and  would 
then  think  of  Faversham. 

She  finished  her  supper  and  went  up-stairs 
through  the  dark  corridors  to  her  bedroom,  op 
ening  the  door  reluctantly.  The  window  had 
blown  open ;  the  room  was  heavy  with  smoke,  the 
fire  had  gone  out.  Maria,  fortified  by  her  sup 
per,  made  the  best  of  it,  wrapped  herself  in  her 
silk  dressing-gown,_put  her  friendly  cloak  about 
her,  threw  on  the  sofa  the  red  eider-downs,  fast 
ened  the  window  and  got  into  the  chilly  bed.  It 
was  as  soft  as  her  own.  She  breathed  a  sigh  of 
gratitude;  it  was  heavenly  to  think  that  no  one 
68 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    LIFE 

in  the  peninsula  knew  where  she  was  and  that  no 
one  had  the  right  to  disturb  her. 

She  fell  asleep  almost  immediately,  and  as  she 
slept  the  storm  passed,  the  moon  rose  and  hung 
in  the  quiet  sky  over  the  terrace  of  Arezzo  where 
the  church  of  San  Pietro  rings  its  silver  bell. 
The  letters  of  the  Maggiore  Corti,  packed  in  a 
mass  in  the  stove,  caught  fire  about  midnight  and 
burned  brightly  with  a  clear  flame,  but  the  little 
stir  and  the  gentle  commotion  they  made  in  their 
destruction  did  not  disturb  Maria  Sant'  Alcione ; 
her  hair  loose  on  the  pillow,  her  head  hidden  in 
the  curves  of  her  arm,  she  slept  until  the  clang 
ing  of  church  bells  woke  her  at  eight  o'clock. 


CHAPTER  VH 

"ITALY,  MY  ITALY!" 

'"T^ERMATA  QUI,"  she  said  to  the  coc- 
f  chiere.  She  did  not  need  to  wait  for  her 
freedom  until  Le  Baize :  she  was  already  free  as 
air.  She  might  stop  where  she  chose,  see  what 
she  liked,  go  on  when  the  fancy  moved  her.  For 
a  fortnight  at  least  she  was  a  free  woman.  Her 
little  carriage  stopped  before  the  church  of  San 
Pietro.  Maria  left  it  and  went  to  the  edge  of 
the  terrace  and  looked  down  on  the  hills  and  the 
valley  below. 

The  first  intimation  of  spring  had  come.  In 
a  week  more  the  apricots  and  the  almonds  would 
be  in  bloom.  The  sunlight  was  furtive  but  warm, 
and  Maria  lifted  her  face  to  the  air  and  the  light. 
In  the  San  Marcello  gardens  where  the  oriole 
sang  she  had  seen  the  first  approach  of  spring. 
70 


"ITALY,    MY    ITALY!" 

Below  her  here  the  olive-trees  clung  gray  on  the 
hill  slope.  "How  sad  to  look  at  everything 
alone,"  she  thought,  "how  sad  to  care  for  every 
thing  alone,  to  be  as  I  am,  always  alone !" 

She  could,  however,  think  of  no  one  with  whom 
it  would  give  her  the  slightest  pleasure 
to  share  the  .soft  air  and  the  capricious  sunlight. 
Father  Faversham,  whom  she  had  persuaded  to 
visit  her  favorite  haunt,  the  exquisite  monas 
tery,  had  disturbed  her  rather  than  calmed  her; 
had  troubled  her  rather  than  given  her  pleasure. 
For  one  reason  and  another,  as  she  stood  on  the 
parapet  gazing  on  the  valley,  the  recollection 
came  to  her  of  her  wedding  journey,  and  she  re 
called  the  starting  away,  the  arrival  in  Paris,  the 
short  pleasurable  excitement  of  the  new  life  as 
a  titled  woman  and  a  married  woman,  and  the 
brutal  introduction  into  reality.  At  seventeen 
her  sentimental  education  had  been  undertaken 
by  a  libertine  without  conscience  or  soul;  her 
nerves  and  her  senses  and  her  ideals  had  been 
shocked,  and  her  heart  bruised.  She  repeated  to 
71 


THE   BROKEN   BELT 

herself  mechanically:  "No,  no  soul,"  and  the 
thought  of  her  husband  disturbed  her  morning 
meditation.  She  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
church.  The  melancholy  which  had  become  in 
the  last  years  a  fixed  expression  on  her  brow,  now 
returned  heavily. 

"I  am  too  lonely,"  she  confessed,  "too  danger 
ously  lonely.  Father  Faversham,  Father  Fa- 
versham,  what  is  to  become  of  me?" 

The  cocchiere  deposited  her  at  the  small  sta 
tion  before  which  ran  the  single  narrow  track — 
leading,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  into  the  un 
known.  The  buying  of  the  ticket  to  San  Sepol- 
cro  (the  end  of  the  line)  amused  her,  and  while 
she  waited  for  the  little  train  she  watched  her 
traveling  companions  with  their  baskets  of  veg 
etables  and  their  country  paraphernalia.  A 
woman  with  a  crate  of  chickens,  a  man  with  kegs 
of  butter,  all  smelling  of  market  and  chatting 
of  business,  gathered  in  the  little  branch  station. 
There  were  a  couple  of  target-shooters  with  their 
72 


"ITALY,    MY    ITALY!" 

showering  cocks'  plumes.  There  was  no  one 
above  the  rank  of  farmer  to  keep  her  company. 

Her  mother,  like  many  another  American 
woman,  had  flirted  seriously  with  Europe.  Maria 
had  been  fetched  abroad  when  ten  years  old  and 
had  never  since  seen  her  own  country.  In  Italy 
she  had  received  the  narrow  education  of  a  fash 
ionable  Roman  jeune  file.  Her  young  friends 
were  Italians  who  giggled  at  the  idea  of  a  man  and 
made  big  eyes  at  life,  and  Maria,  full  of  ideals, 
with  a  superficial  education  and  a  tin}'  fortune, 
had  been  given  over  to  Luigi  Sant'  Alcione  be 
fore  she  had  passed  her  eighteenth  birthday. 
The  following  year  her  mother  had  died  of  ty 
phoid,  and  it  happened  that  at  the  same  time  in 
which  the  young  wife  told  her  husband  that  she 
was  to  bear  him  a  child,  she  learned  of  his  miser 
able  liaisons  and  infidelities. 

Her  brother,  denationalized  like  herself,  had 

scarcely  finished  his  studies  in  England  before 

his  life  had  been  ended  by  accident.     Over  and 

over  again  she  had  said  to  herself:     "He  was 

73 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

the  only  person  I  ever  loved,"  though  from  what 
she  could  remember  of  her  father  she  thought  she 
would  have  loved  him  dearly,  and  she  felt  a  ten 
derness  for  the  devoted  forgotten  man,  who  had 
made  a  fortune  for  his  family  to  spend  and  who 
lived  without  the  solace  of  children,  or  the  com 
panionship  of  wife.  She  wondered  what  the  rela 
tion  ship  of  her  father  and  mother  could  have 
been,  what  fate  had  separated  them.  She  shook 
her  head.  The  American  alternative  had  become 
inconceivable  to  her  now.  She  must  reconcile  her 
race  and  her  prejudices  with  her  education  and 
worldly  experiences.  She  was  an  Italian. 

Even  on  this  sunless  afternoon  when  the  soft- 
colored  country  was  melancholy,  there  was 
nothing  wintry  about  the  Tuscan  landscape. 
Lying  between  the  low  shores  Maria  caught  the 
flash  of  a  milky-white  stream  whose  rapid  eddy 
ing  rush  carried  it  over  the  lime-like  stones. 
This  was  her  first  sight  of  the  infant  Tiber  whose 
source  now  lay  not  more  than  fifty  miles  away. 

Maria  lifted  her  veil  and  looked  out  on  the 
74 


"ITALY,    MY    ITALY!" 

copper-colored  fields  and  the  melancholy  land, 
then  opening  the  window,  breathed  in  the  air 
with  delight.  The  beaut}''  of  the  valley,  the  som 
ber  fields  where  the  white  flocks  fed,  the  sweep  in 
the  distance  of  the  Apennine  wall,  the  climbing 
of  the  hills  to  the  snow-covered  peaks,  the  mys 
tery  of  the  sky  which  at  any  moment  might 
break  into  supernal  blue — she  responded  to  it, 
she  loved  it  all. 

"Italy,  Italy !"  she  murmured,  "I  adore  it !  It 
has  done  me  harm,  perhaps  even  wrong,  but  it  is 
my  country ;  I  don't  want  any  other,  and  part  of 
me  is  buried  here." 

Her  eyes  looked  tenderly  on  the  esthetic  love 
liness.  The  beauty  of  the  miles  she  had  traversed 
soothed  her ;  old  wounds  were  closing  and  she 
began  to  gain  mental  equilibrium. 

A  curve  of  the  road  brought  into  full  view  the 
upper  sweep  of  the  golden  valley  whose  amethys 
tine  olive  vineyards  swept  to  the  willows  under 
whose  trees  the  cattle  fed  on  the  short-grassed 
pasture,  and  through  the  valley's  center  the 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Tiber's  stream  broke  its  slender  way.  Maria 
turned  as  if  she  longed  to  share  her  pleasure  with 
a  companion,  and  to  the  empty  seat  of  the  car 
riage  said  aloud  in  her  mellow  agreeable  voice : 

"I  am  too  young  to  be  unhappy  like  this.  I 
am  too  young  not  to  love  and  not  to  be  loved.  I 
can't  bear  it  any  longer." 

She  drew  off  her  gloves  and  looked  at  her  bare 
hands,  for  she  had  brought  no  rings ;  her  wed 
ding-ring  only  hung  heavy  on  her  finger.  Her 
hands,  graceful  and  capable,  were  indicative  of 
her  nature:  there  was  a  caress  in  every  line  of 
them;  but  as  she  spread  them  out  now,  regard 
ing  them  curiously,  the  gesture  was  that  of  an 
oblation.  Their  emptiness  appealed  to  her  as 
she  remembered  how  she  used  to  hold  them  out 
to  her  little  child,  how  she  had  held  his  little  face 
between  her  palms.  She  had  cared  for  him, 
bathed  him,  dressed  him",  as  did  few  women  of 
her  world.  Her  hands  were  cruelly  empty.  It 
was  a  long  time  since  she  had  touched  anything 
with  affection.  It  would  be  a  relief  perhaps  to 
76 


"ITALY,    MY    ITALY!" 

go  and  bind  up  the  wounds  of  the  maimed  and 
halt.  Women  with  leisure  that  amounted  to  en 
nui  took  courses  in  the  Red  Cross  Society  and 
no  doubt  did  a  great  deal  of  good,  but  she 
thought  she  was  not  fitted  for  that  sort  of  thing. 
The  only  object  she  could  recall  touching  with 
affection  had  been  the  bell  in  San  Marcello,  when 
she  had  felt  it  like  a  live  hurt  thing  under  her 
hands  and  the  fissure  like  a  cruel  sharp  wound. 
Binding  up  wounds  and  ministering  to  the  sick 
would  not  bring  her  peace  in  her  present  state  ; 
Maria  was  certain  of  this,  and  that  she  had  no 
vocation,  nor  would  a  child  satisfy  her  now  :  she 
folded  her  hands  across  her  breast  and  bent  her 
dark  head,  supple,  graceful,  every  movement 
harmonious;  she  mused,  her  foot  gently  swing 
ing  to  and  fro. 

"Father  Faversham,"  she  thought,  "is  won 
derful  for  a  priest  and  a  man  so  young.  I  be 
lieve  that  he  would  be  merciful." 

They  waited  so  long  in  a  station  into  which 
e  train  had  drawn  that  at  last  she  looked  out 


and  found  that  it  was  Borgo,  and  opening  the 
window  called  to  a  peasant  who  lounged  on  the 
platform,  his  shepherd-dog  at  his  heels.  Maria 
induced  him  to  carry  out  her  luggage  and  to  find 
her  a  carriage.  No  sooner  had  she  touched  the 
platform  than  she  saw  the  uselessness  of  her  last 
order. 

The  station  was  on  the  outskirts  of  a  tiny 
brown  town,  one  of  the  adorable  Italian  towns 
that  dot  the  peninsula  like  jewels.  It  did  not 
suggest  waiting  carriages  or  hotel  buses. 

"An  inn,  yes,  yes,  Signora."  She  must  follow 
him.  And  the  man  trotted  off  up  the  road,  with 
her  bags  and  her  valise,  Maria  following,  her 
spirit  of  adventure  dulled  by  the  cloudy  day  and 
the  uncertainty  of  her  destination.  There  was 
not  a  soul  in  sight^.and  she  began  to  be  raven 
ous  for  a  thoroughly  good  luncheon,  for  since 
Rome  she  had  eaten  nothing  but  her  poor  sup 
per  of  the  previous  night. 

"Am  I  already  beginning  to  feel  the  peas  in 
my  shoes  ?"  She  smiled,  walking  bravely  on  be- 
78 


"ITALY,   MY   ITALY!" 

hind  the  trotting  porter.  It  was  after  two 
o'clock.  The  day,  still  windless,  was  damp  and 
cold ;  the  air  came  straight  from  the  Apennines, 
where  the  late  snows  lay  far  down  the  slopes. 
Before  her  little  Borgo  stood  out  dark  and  brown 
like  a  village  cut  from  velvet,  mellow  with  the 
bloom  of  centuries,  fragrant  with  age  and  the 
odors  of  fires  that  had  kindled  and  died  and 
been  rekindled  for  close  on  nine  hundred  years. 

The  porter  led  her  over  great  cobbles  in  the 
middle  of  the  streets,  trotting  like  a  dog  under 
her  luggage,  his  own  dog  trotting  at  his  side. 
The  citizens  of  the  town  looked  curiously  at  the 
Contessa  Sant'  Alcione,  suspicious  of  the  elegant 
woman  from  her  high  heels  to  her  toque  with  its 
bright  red  rose.  A  flock  of  sheep,  driven  sud 
denly  round  a  corner,  scattered  bleating,  and  the 
porter's  dog  joined  in  with  the  shepherd's  dog 
and  together  the  pair  drove  the  flock  by.  Maria 
saw  the  big  basin  of  a  fountain  through  an  op 
ening  of  the  street,  the  walls  of  solidly  built 
houses  black  with  time,  as  she  passed  between 
79 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

them  following  her  guide,  who  made  for  the  door 
of  an  ancient  building  where,  over  the  low  en 
trance,  the  word  "Trattoria"  ran.  The  peasant 
dropped  his  burden  at  the  threshold. 

"This,  Eccellenza,  is  the  inn" — and,  his  fee  in 
mind,  finished :  "and  it  is  a  very  long  way  from 
the  station !" 

Hopelessly  she  considered  the  inn  where  on  the 
balcony  over  the  door  a  crowd  of  peasants,  part 
of  a  wedding-feast,  were  singing  and  drinking; 
one  of  the  party  leaned  her  red  face  over  the 
railing,  crying :  "See,  a  new  guest,  welcome." 

"But  I  can't  stay  in  this  tavern,"  Maria  said 
to  her  guide,  "there  must  be  another  hotel." 

"No  other,"  he  informed  her,  "this  is  an  excel 
lent  tavern,  Eccellenza !" 

"How  far  is  Pieve  San  Stefano  from  here?" 

He  shrugged :  he  did  not  know. 

The  innkeeper,  a  gaudy-cheeked,  black-haired 

matron,  brought  her  odor  of  garlic  and  hair-oil 

to  the  door,  and  the  contessa  realized  that  she 

herself  was  nearly  fainting  with  hunger.  Glanc- 

80 


"ITALY,   MY   ITALY!" 

ing  at  the  lady's  luggage  and  at  the  traveler 
herself,  the  innkeeper  decided  not  to  be  hospita 
ble. 

"There  is  nothing  to  eat,"  she  informed  cool 
ly,  "a  large  party  from  the  country  has  just 
come  and  eaten  up  everything." 

Poor  Maria  exclaimed :  "Oh,  but  you  can  give 
me  an  egg  and  some  chicken." 

Every  chicken  in  the  neighborhood,  the  woman 
assured  her,  had  been  eaten  by  the  wedding 
guests. 

The  contessa  took  her  purse  from  her  small 
bag  and  said  humbly,  smiling  on  her  hostess : 

"I  am  dreadfully  hungry!  If  you  will  give 
me  some  milk  and  bread,  anything,  I  will  pay 
you  well." 

This  was  too  tempting,  and  the  woman,  with 
out  cordiality,  beckoned  the  guest  to  follow  her. 

"I  have  no  room  for  the  night,"  she  called 

over  her  shoulder,  "the  wedding  party  has  taken 

the   whole   inn."      And   the   fat   hard-featured 

hostess    swayed   and  undulated  up   the   stairs. 

81 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Maria  followed  meekly  into  an  ice-cold  room 
from  which  the  windows  opened  on  the  balcony, 
now  overflowing  with  wedding  guests.  The  water 
stood  out  on  the  humid  stones,  bare  tables  lined 
the  room,  the  dampness  oozed  from  the  walls. 
Maria  Sant'  Alcione  sat  down  at  a  table,  shiver 
ing  in  her  furs,  and  waited  with  a  patience  and 
a  humility  that  did  her  honor  and  that  made 
her  smile.  She  had  never  been  so  hungry  in  her 
life. 

The  wedding  guests,  absorbed  in  their  riot 
ous  amusements,  did  not  observe  her.  At  the 
bridal  table  a  group  closed  about  the  little  peas 
ant  bride,  a  pale-featured  slender  thing,  freckled 
and  big-eyed  under  her  virginal  veil  with  its 
cheap  orange-flower  garland.  She  sat  like  a 
first  communicant,  insignificant,  all  in  white, 
overhung  by  her  big  black  husband,  a  fine  speci- 
man  of  the  Tuscan  with  skin  like  a  pomegranate, 
and  flashing  eyes.  The  best  clothes,  the  bouton- 
nieres  of  artificial  flowers,  the  coarse  toil-de 
formed  hands  as  they  lifted  their  glasses  and 
82 


"ITALY,   MY   ITALY!" 

clinked  them,  the  merriment  that  always  in  that 
class  has  a  touch  of  restraint  or  shame,  made  a 
pathetic  impression  on  Maria.  She  felt  a  thrill 
of  tenderness  toward  the  little  bride  of  the  age 
she  herself  had  been  when  her  husband  had  taken 
her  away. 

"I  hope  Tie  will  be  good  to  her !" 

Up  the  stairs  to  the  room  where  she  sat  came 
the  musicians  with  their  fiddles  and  a  flute,  and 
passed  out  to  the  balcony. 

"Heavens,"  Maria  thought,  remembering  what 
these  festivities  were  like,  "they  will  all  come  in 
here  to  dance  and  I  shall  be  overwhelmed  by 
them!" 

But  the  banquet  was  not  yet  ended,  and  the 
musicians,  stormily  welcomed,  crowded  like  mice 
into  a  corner  of  the  balcony  and  tuned  their  poor 
instruments,  while  the  innkeeper  fetched  Maria's 
dinner  of  milk  and  a  huge  piece  of  sour  bread. 
Maria  ate  the  bread  by  little  bits  and  drank  the 
milk  gratefully. 

"If  Pieve  is  as  primitive  as  this,  I  shall  be  a 
83 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

skeleton  by  the  time  I  reach  Le  Baize!  A  jour 
ney  that  begins  with  a  fast  should  end  with  a 
feast!  .  .  ."  She  smiled  to  herself,  encourag 
ing  her  desolation. 

The  musicians  began  to  play  a  tarantella,  a 
medley  of  horrible  discords.  Maria  glanced  at 
the  bridal  table  where  the  bridegroom  bent  down 
to  the  little  bride,  while  the  others,  interested  in 
local  bits  of  humor  for  the  moment,  forgot  the 
newly  married  pair.  They  were  looking  into 
each  other's  eyes.  Maria  saw  the  face  of  the  vir 
ginal  creature  light  as  if  a  torch  had  been  set  to 
flax.  Neither  man  nor  woman  moved  a  muscle: 
they  sat  and  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes,  and 
the  bride  ceased  to  suggest  a  first  communicant 
— she  was  a  woman  crossing  the  threshold  of 
life.  Maria  in  looking  felt  herself  to  be  indis 
creet  and  turned  away,  conscious  of  a  swifter 
beating  of  her  heart.  She  finished  her  meal,  and 
when  the  hostess  returned  indolently,  swaying 
along,  Maria  prayed  to  be  shown  a  room  where 
she  could  rest  for  an  hour ;  and  then : 
84 


"ITALY,   MY    ITALY!" 

"I  want  a  carriage  of  some  sort  and  a  good 
driver  to  take  me  to  San  Stefano." 

The  innkeeper  dropped  the  money  Maria  gave 
her  into  her  apron  pocket. 

"Ah,  there  is  nothing  easier;  the  hotel  owns 
an  excellent  carriage  and  an  excellent  horse,  and 
San  Stefano  is  only  fifteen  miles  away !" 

Maria  closed  the  door  of  the  room.  Under 
neath  on  the  balcony  the  wedding  party  sang  to 
plaintive  fiddling.  An  excitement  ran  through 
her,  a  sense  of  freedom,  and  the  interest  of  her 
little  adventure  kept  her  still  from  feeling  her 
exhaustion.  If  her  Roman  and  Neapolitan 
friends  could  see  her,  an  unwelcome  guest,  alone 
in  a  wretched  room  in  a  fourth-class  wayside  inn ! 

She  had  kept  her  small  dressing-bag  with  her, 
and  when  she  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  veil,  she 
put  the  comb  through  her  hair,  passed  her  hand 
kerchief  across  the  face  of  the  small  mirror  on 
the  dressing-table,  and  sat  down  to  consider  her 
own  reflection.  Father  Faversham's  words  re 
turned  to  her :  "You  did  not  bury  your  beauty." 
85 


Much  good  it  did  her !  What  was  the  use  of  it, 
if  she  was  to  wither  and  grow  faded  and  wrin 
kled  without  love?  The  glass  was  blurred  and 
her  image  was  reflected  as  through  a  veil.  As 
sometimes  the  consciousness  of  one's  own  identity 
and  its  immutability  sweeps  upon  the  individual, 
so  Maria  realized  she  had  accomplished  the  end 
of  her  journey.  She  was  alone  with  herself. 
Neither  fatuous  nor  vain,  she  studied  her  face 
with  interest,  and  saw  neither  line  nor  shadow 
marking  there.  She  would  have  said  that  her 
face  lacked  distinction  had  it  not  been  for  the 
melancholy  that  sat  like  a  ghost  upon  her  brow. 

"My  little  Sandro,"  she  murmured,  "left  the 
only  deep  impression  on  my  life,  and  it  is  sad." 

The  sharp  ache  of  her  heart  when  she  thought 
of  her  child  made  he'r  eyes  swim,  and  she  brushed 
her  hand  across  them. 

"If  I  have  not  done  anything  very  dreadful," 
she  thought,  "I  have  not  done  anything  good, 
and  I  have  been  going  down  through  sheer  weak 
ness.  I  am  tired  of  it  all." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    FACE    IN    THE    GLASS 

WHEN  the  subject  had  arisen  of  Mary 
Fairbanks'  marriage  with  Luigi  Sant' 
Alcione,  the  young  girl's  mother  had  been 
obliged  to  consider  the  question  of  religion.  It 
was  then  discovered  that  the  Americans  had  none. 
The  Catholicism  of  her  companions  seemed  to 
Mary  picturesque  and  a  little  fantastic.  Her 
own  people,  of  course,  were  Prostestants,  which 
word  stood  for  the  indefinite  unpractical  faith 
held  by  her  parents  and  friends.  When  her 
mother  informed  her  that  she  was  to  be  a  Catho 
lic  and  begin  ,to  study  the  catechism  with  Mon- 
signor  Campanelli,  the  news  made  about  as  much 
impression  on  Mary  as  did  the  preparation  for 
a  fancy  dress  ball!  Her  new  religion,  however, 
impressed  her,  from  the  day  of  her  first  com- 
87 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

munion,  with  its  feasts  and  fatigue,  with  the 
lights  and  incense.  She  took  a  more  lively  in 
terest  in  her  approaching  marriage,  in  her 
fiance,  and  in  her  trousseau. 

But  after  her  marriage  and  during  the  suc 
ceeding  months  when  she  found  the  need  of 
her  adopted  faith,  she  discovered  she  had 
neither  seized  on  nor  understood  its  spirit, 
and  that  the  rote-learned  prayers  and  the 
unpractised  maxims  fell  to  nothing  at  her 
touch.  She  soon  ceased  to  attend  mass  and 
never  went  to  confession,  and  her  Americanism 
revealed  itself  in  her  obstinacy,  her  temerity  and 
her  freedom.  One  day  she  said  to  her  husband, 
who  confessed  yearly : 

"Don't  speak  to  me  of  spiritual  things,  Gigi !" 
And  he  had  shrugged,  leaving  her  to  the  loss  of 
her  own  soul  and  to  her  unbelief.  If  (as  she  had 
told  Faversham)  she  were  really  an  unbeliever, 
what  had  kept  her  virtuous?  "The  Catholic  re 
ligion  never  kept  a  woman  from  love,"  she 
thought.  "Is  it  some  old  Puritan  strain  in  me, 
88 


THE    FACE    IN    THE    GLASS 

some  refinement  of  Protestantism,  or,  as  Father 
Faversham  said,  that  I  have  not  been  tempted?" 

Here  at  Borgo  the  face  in  the  dim  mirror  was 
her  own  and  yet  strange;  the  reflection  had 
neither  being  nor  tangibility,  but  was  a  vision 
upon  glass,  purely  mental,  yet  real  as  though  it 
had  been  a  portrait.  Maria  looked  into  the  eyes, 
where  the  blue  was  nearly  violet,  and  the  brow 
with  its  oriental  penciling,  on  the  oval  face  and 
the  melancholy  with  which  she  was  familiar.  But 
as  she  gazed  the  melancholy  altered  to  medita 
tion,  contemplation  and  a  thoughtfulness  that 
was  like  a  transfixed  image  of  prayer.  She 
sighed  and  passed  her  hand  lightly  across  the 
glass. 

"Poor  Father  Faversham!"  she  murmured, 
"his  pure  mind  is  filled  with  the  image  of  holy 
women:  he  said  I  was  holy:  he  said  that  I  was 
beautiful." 

She  mused:  a  line  of  one  of  her  old  prayers 
came  to  her — "Maria,  mother  of  all  holy  desires, 
or  a  pro  nobis."  What  a  difference  the  adjective 
89 


fTHE    BROKEN    BELL 

before  "desires"  made!  If  one  could  strike  it 
out !  .  .  .  Still  musing  on  her  image  she  mur 
mured  half -consciously,  her  own  name,  Maria. 

The  music  from  the  balcony  below  came  to  a 
stop,  and  she  heard  the  chairs  scrape  as  the  wed 
ding  guests  trooped  into  the  room  beneath, 
sabots  and  new1  boots  and  shoes  noisy  on  the 
stones.  A  dull  shuffling  and  the  indistinct  plain 
tive  notes  of  the  little  instrument  told  Maria 
that  the  feasters  were  about  to  begin  their  ball. 

From  the  piazza  the  church  bell  rang  a  cascade 
of  broken  tones ;  when  they  ceased  three  o'clock 
rolled  out  from  the  throat  of  the  duomo  bell,  and 
the  sound,  deep  and  resonant,  came  purely  on 
the  air  to  Maria,  who  started  at  the  irrevocable 
record  of  the  hour.  Well,  here  in  Borgo  they 
had  passed  it  each  "and  all,  the  wedding  guests 
at  their  feast,  and  the  lonely  traveler  musing  on 
her  image  in  the  dingy  glass. 

When  she  had  put  on  her  hat  and  taken  her 
little  bag  she  heard  loud  voices  without  in  the 
hall ;  part  of  the  company  were  clattering  up  the 
90 


THE    FACE    IN    THE    GLASS 

stairs,  the  little  bride  in  their  midst ;  behind  her 
the  big  husband  had  his  hands  on  her  waist, 
laughing  over  her  shoulder.  Small,  piteous,  her 
pale  face  and  her  wreath  and  hair  in  disorder, 
she  fluttered  by  like  a  frightened  bird.  The  Con- 
tessa  Sant'  Alcione  stood  aside  and  the  couple 
passed  her.  At  the  door  of  the  room  Maria  had 
left,  and  evidently  the  best  apartment  of  the  inn, 
the  group  paused,  laughing,  singing,  jesting, 
and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  went  into  the 
room. 

As  she  went  down-stairs,  Maria  wondered 
whether  the  little  bride  would  see,  back  of  the 
orange-flowers  and  her  startled  face,  the  image 
she  herself  had  made  in  the  glass ! 

A  carriage  drawn  by  a  stout  sorrel  horse, 
stood  before  the  door,  and  high  on  his  seat  a 
young  boy,  with  a  friendly  face,  waited  to  drive 
her  to  Pieve.  He  swept  his  hat  off  with  a  grace 
ful  gesture. 

"At  your  will,  Signora !" 

She  saw  that  in  their  haste  to  be  rid  of  her  the 
91 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

inn  people  had  already  piled  her  luggage  on  the 
seat. 

Oh,  yes,  the  boy  knew  the  way  to  San  Stefano. 
He  drove  "nobly".  His  horse  was  a  "noble  and 
a  brave  animal".  He  would  take  the  eccellenza 
to  Pieve  San  Stefano. 


CHAPTER  IX 

INN    OF    THE    SEVEN    DOVES 

SHE  made  herself  as  comfortable  as  she 
could  in  her  tiny  carriage,  settling  for 
the  drive  into  the  Tiber  country.  As  they  left 
Borgo  there  struck  out  from  the  gray  sky  a  ra 
diance  of  sunlight  as  soft  as  a  muted  violin.  On 
the  left  the  country  was  rude,  barren  and  rocky, 
and  on  the  right  Maria  looked  with  enchanted 
eyes  to  where  the  yellow  pastures  came  flatly 
down  to  the  river  side.  Beyond  at  the  valley's 
end  purple  mountains  stole  upward  unto  snowy 
peaks. 

Maria  looked  on  into  a  great  wilderness,  into 
the  forest  heart  of  the  mountain  country,  and 
found  it  forbidding,  inaccessible  and  cold.  She 
drew  her  furs  about  her  and  the  air  was  as  chaste 
as  a  cup  of  celestial  wine.  The  Tiber  lay  in  sil- 
93 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

ver  pools  against  the  dull  purple  of  the  land 
scape.  Little  Borgo  was  lost  behind  her  and  she 
pursued  her  enchanted  way  into  the  unknown. 

Maria  Goanelli  would  be  overjoyed  to  see  her; 
she  would  kiss  her  and  weep  over  her ;  they  would 
remember  together;  they  would  talk  of  Sandro! 
She  could  see  Maria  Goanelli's  gestures  of  de 
spair  and  her  big  eyes  dark  with  tears. 

The  Italian  driver  snapped  his  whip,  but  so 
gently  that  Maria  did  not  restrain  him. 

"Look,"  said  the  boy,  turning  round  in  his 
seat,  "if  the  eccellenza  will  see  a  beautiful  cas 
tle  .  .  ." 

She  saw  it  rise,  a  little  tower  like  a  golden 
shaft.  On  its  crenelated  walls  was  a  bloom  as 
on  a  moth's  wings — the  dust  and  pollen  of  time. 
On  the  top  of  the  tufa  hillock  an  eleventh-cen 
tury  stronghold  dominated  the  valley. 

The  driver  held  his  brave  horse  up  sharply, 
and  standing,  gesticulated  with  his  whip. 

"Many  years  ago,"  he  began,  as  story-tellers 
do,  "there  was  once  upon  a  time  a  conte  and  a 
94 


INN    OF    THE    SEVEN    DOVES 

contessa,  Eccellenza,  and  they  lived  there  in  the 
Castello  d'Assai."  He  pointed  to  a  brown  bridge 
arching  the  stream.  "That  is  the  Ponte  d'Assai, 
Eccellenza." 

Maria  Sant'  Alcione  asked  patiently:  "Why 
'Assai'?" 

"There  was  as  well  a  lovely  daughter,  and  she 
had  a  sweetheart  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
river,  a  young  man  from  Borgo,  and  they  would 
not  let  him  marry  her." 

The  lady  listened,  smiling. 

"So  every  night,  Eccellenza,  the  lover  swam 
the  Tiber  and  climbed  up  to  the  tower,  and  one 
night  he  was  drowned  in  the  stream;  and  when 
the  lady  saw  his  dead  face  in  the  moonlit  river 
she  drowned  herself,  too." 

"But  why,"  asked  Maria,  "didn't  he  use  the 
bridge  ?" 

"Oh,"   exclaimed  the  boy,   "the   bridge   was 

built  by  the  contessa  in  memory  of  the  lover  and 

of  her  daughter,  and  when  they  used  to  ask  her 

if  the  bridge  had  cost  her  much  she  would  an- 

95 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

swer,  'Assai'  (enough),  and  so  they  called  it  the 
Ponte  d' Assai." 

The  little  Italian  driver  acutely  watched  the 
lady  to  see  what  impression  his  story  made.  Ap 
parently  he  was  content,  for  without  further 
word  he  sat  down  and  cried  "Avanti,"  and  the 
brave  horse  started  forward  with  a  good  will. 

The  legend  ran  in  with  Maria's  dreams.  She 
leaned  out  and  looked  back  at  the  brown  castello 
and  the  little  bridge  peopled  by  charming  ghosts 
of  love  and  courage,  of  passion  and  death. 

"Assai,"  she  murmured,  "assai:  7  can't  say 
that.  I  am  more  ready  to  burn  bridges  than  to 
build  them,  and  I  have  not  had  enough,  I  have 
had  nothing." 

The  miles  ran  out  behind  them.  Borgo  had 
been  inhospitable  and  beautiful;  what  would 
Pieve  be?  The  hunger  that  she  felt  now 
amounted  to  a  faintness  that  the  keen  air  alone 
kept  from  vertigo.  She  had  gone  on  as  though 
led  by  fate,  thinking  little  of  the  several  stages. 
At  Arezzo  she  had  left  the  Maggiore  Corti ;  at 
96 


INN    OF    THE    SEVEN    DOVES 

Borgo  she  had  left  lovers  in  her  place;  now  at 
Pieve  San  Stefano  .  .  .?  In  her  dressing-bag, 
including  a  complicated  motor  plan  made  for  her 
by  her  husband,  and  a  guide-book,  was  the  letter 
to  the  Marchese  Allesandro  della  Gandara,  and 
the  strange  man's  face  with  the  appeal  in  the  eyes 
revealed  itself  to  her.  Her  little  driver  took  his 
horse  sharply  round  a  corner  and  Castello  d'As- 
sai  was  lost  to  view. 

"Do  you  know  Pieve  San  Stefano?"  Maria 
asked  her  boy,  and  he  turned,  delighted : 

"But  well!  Heavens,  Pieve  is  so  small,  it  is 
not  difficult  to  know !" 

"Is  there  an  inn?"  She  asked  eagerly,  crav 
ing  food  and  rest  as  might  any  travel-worn  way 
farer,  and  she  believed  him  when  he  assured  her 
that  there  was  a  splendid  hotel.  .  .  .  She 
sighed  with  relief. 

"Do  you  know  any  one  by  the  name  of  Delia 
Gandara?" 

"But  of  course,  Eccellenza!  The  Marchese 
Allesandro  della  Gandara  is  very  celebrated,  and 
97 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

enormously  good.  He  is  the  mayor  and  the 
doctor,  he  is  everything!" 

"In  which  case,"  thought  the  contessa,  "he 
will  be  easy  to  find  and  hard  to  escape !  I  shall 
go  on  to  Le  Baize  to-morrow  .  .  .  And  Le 
Baize?"  she  continued  aloud. 

The  boy  repeated  the  name  vaguely.  "I  don't 
know,  Signora!" 

And  once  more  the  hamlet  hung  in  the  un 
known. 

Peasants  from  Pieve  began  now  to  people  the 
roadside.  A  woman  riding  a  tiny  donkey  trotted 
into  view,  her  brilliant  yellow  kerchief  fluttering 
in  the  breeze.  In  her  arms  she  held  a  sleeping 
child,  and  at  the  ass's  bridle  her  husband,  a  fine- 
looking  peasant,  walked  singing.  As  the  group 
passed  her  carriage'she  recalled  the  words :  "He 
took  the  young  child  and  his  mother  by  night 
and  departed  into  Egypt." 

The  peasants  drove  their  bleating  sheep  and 
cattle  home ;  the  air  was  full  of  tinkling  of  bells 
and  bleating  of  lambs,  as  the  Iwfbwy  flocks,  un- 
98 


INN    OF    THE    SEVEN    DOVES 

certain  and  plaintive,  were  driven  up  with  their 
mothers  from  the  banks  where  they  had  been 
feeding  by  the  bright  river.  The  river  narrowed 
as  Maria  looked  up  toward  the  source.  When 
the  pointed  tower  of  the  church  and  the  thick 
roofs  of  Pieve  came  into  sight,  Maria  said  to  the 
driver : 

"Take  me  directly  to  the  inn,  and  you  will  get 
supper  and  put  up  your  horse.  Possibly  to-mor 
row  you  will  take  me  to  Le  Baize." 

In  front  of  her  little  Pieve  sprang  up  in  the 
center  of  a  white  road  which  ran  through  it,  and 
away  again  out  under  an  old  arch  at  the  end  of 
a  single  street.  Here  between  age-worn  walls 
some  three  hundred  simple  creatures  gathered  and 
made  their  home.  Borgo  had  been  brown ;  Pieve 
was  dull  gray,  and  the  Inn  of  the  Seven  Doves, 
white  with  green  blinds,  shone  with  a  friendly 
face  to  Maria.  During  a  recent  season  it  had 
received  a  coat  of  whitewash  and  sparkled  fair  as 
a  lily  in  the  setting  of  the  grayer  stones  of  the 
town.  A  balcony  ran  along  the  front  of  the  inn, 
99 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

but  there  were  no  wedding  guests  to  greet  the 
traveler ;  indeed  no  one  greeted  her. 

Pieve  seemed  deserted,  but  full  of  sweet  sounds, 
for  she  heard  the  doves  coo  from  under  the  roof, 
and  the  lowing  of  the  cattle,  and  the  bleating  of 
the  lambs  as  they  came  flocking  down  the  street, 
their  sharp  feet  pattering  on  the  stones.  The 
dust  rose  in  a  cloud  as  the  shepherd  girls  trotted 
behind  their  flocks,  their  wooden  shoes  striking 
the  stones  with  the  tiny  feet  of  the  sheep,  and 
the  softer  footsteps  of  the  cattle.  Maria  had 
left  her  carriage,  and  from  the  steps  of  the  inn 
looked  down  on  the  herds.  Behind  her  into  a 
large  clean  kitchen  the  door  was  open. 

"It  looks  almost  inviting,"  she  thought; 
"where  can  the  people  be?  I  am  famished — it 
must  be  past  six." 

Her  driver  had  gone  round  to  the  back  of  the 
inn,  and  Maria  tapped  on  the  open  door.  As 
she  stood  looking  toward  the  ancient  gateway 
whose  arch  cut  out  a  half  circle  of  the  sky,  she 
saw  two  men  coming  slowly  through  the  portal. 
100 


INN   OF   THE    SEVEN    DOVES 

One  of  them  was  unmistakably  a  peasant,  the 
other  unmistakably  a  gentleman.  The  latter,  in 
an  outing  suit  of  rough  tweed,  a  soft  hat  on  his 
head,  carried  a  basket,  and  a  fishing  rod  across 
his  shoulders. 

Maria  came  slowly  down  the  steps  of  the  inn 
and  approached  the  two  men,  who  had  stopped. 
She  saw  the  gentleman  pause  and  look  up  in 
amazement.  Before  he  had  ceased  to  be  amazed 
at  the  sight  of  a  woman  like  the  Contessa  Sant* 
Alcione,  in  her  pretty  dress,  her  fur  hat  with  its 
rose,  her  small  high-heeled  boots,  she  had  come 
up  to  him. 

"Isn't  this  the  Marchese  della  Gandara?"  she 
asked  in  French,  for  some  reason  not  caring  to 
betray  her  identity  in  Italian. 

"At  your  service,  Madame,"  replied  the  gen 
tleman  and  lifted  his  hat.  His  hair  was  as 
dark  as  her  own  and  a  little  gray  at  the  temples. 

"My  husband,  Luigi  Sant'  Alcione,  has  given 
me  a  letter  to  you.  He  told  me  I  should  find  you 
in  Pieve." 

101 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Why,  it  can't  be  possible !  Gigi,  good  old 
Gigi !  Let  me  make  you  welcome !" 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  as  she  gave  him  hers 
it  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  first  thing  she  had 
touched  since  the  broken  bell.  His  hand  took 
her  own  strongly,  completely,  firmly. 

"You  have  just  arrived  in  Pieve?  Where  did 
you  come  from?" 

She  told  him  in  a  word  but  he  did  not  appear 
to  listen,  looking  at  her  delightedly,  eagerly, 
curiously,  as  though  she  were  an  arrival  from 
another  sphere.  He  gave  his  fishing  basket  and 
rod  to  the  man. 

"But  certainly  there  is  some  one  at  the  inn! 
No,  they  are  not  all  dead !  Unfortunately  no  one 
dies  in  Pieve.  They  live  for  ever  here,  Contessa. 
Come  with  me.  I  will  make  you  persona  grata 
with  Elena." 

He  preceded  her  into  the  inn,  into  the  kitchen, 
and  called,  "Hola,  Elena,"  threw  his  hat  down 
on  the  table,  and  smiled  radiantly  on  Maria  Sant' 
Alcione. 

102 


INN    OF    THE    SEVEN    DOVES 

"You  are  tired  and  hungry?  Well,  we  will 
squeeze  Pieve  for  you.  You  shall  have  the  best. 
Hola,  Elena!  Possibly  they  are  all  dead."  He 
laughed  but  did  not  cease  to  look  at  her. 

"See,"  he  cried  to  a  sweet-faced  old  woman 
who  came  in.  "See,  my  Elena!  Were  you 
asleep  ?  Here  is  a  great  lady  come  to  do  you  the 
honor  of  staying  at  the  Seven  Doves."  He 
spoke  quickly,  eagerly,  with  a  charming  inflec 
tion.  "You  will  give  her  your  best  room,  and 
warm  it,  my  friend,  with  a  brazier,  and  warm  the 
linen  as  well." 

"Ah,"  interrupted  Maria,  amused  at  the 
woman's  face,  "I  am  not  so  difficult  to  please. 
Don't  terrify  her.  See,"  she  said  reassuringly  to 
the  old  thing,  "we  shall  get  on  splendidly,  Sig- 
nora !  Just  a  bed  and  some  food !" 

"Ecco,  ecco,  Eccellenza,"  murmured  the 
woman  timidly. 

"Food  of  course,"  cried  Delia  Gandara,  "and 
a  fire  in  the  parlor  at  once.     Fetch  some  coals 
and  I  will  light  the  wood." 
103 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

The  big  room  proved  to  be  the  parlor — and 
Maria  had  thought  it  the  kitchen ! 

The  floor  was  polished  bright  as  glass ;  in  the 
vast  fireplace,  waiting  to  be  lighted,  piled  long 
logs,  and  a  few  deal  chairs  and  tables  highly  pol 
ished  as  well,  stood  soberly  around  the  wall.  Mon- 
astical  in  its  simplicity  and  scrupulously  clean, 
the  homely  place  had  a  gentle  charm.  Over  the 
chimney  hung  a  picture  of  the  Virgin,  her  hands 
pressed  against  the  pierced  heart  aflame  upon 
her  breast. 

"Thank  you,"  Maria  said  to  Delia  Gandara, 
"you  are  very  good.  At  Borgo  I  was  almost 
driven  out  of  the  inn ;  I  think  they  suspected  me 
of  being  an  adventuress.  I  starved  and  froze  at 
Arezzo,  and  here  .  .  ."  She  stopped. 

Delia  Gandara,  with  a  naivete  that  was  incon 
gruous  with  his  manner  and  age,  gazed  at  her 
absorbedly.  He  repeated :  "Here  in  Pieve  you 
will  ...  be  happy."  He  went  abruptly  to 
the  fireplace,  calling,  "Elena,  Elena,  fetch  the 
coals." 

104 


INN    OF   THE    SEVEN    DOVES 

He  did  not  turn  about  again  until  he  had  made 
a  great  blaze,  and  the  loud  crackling  and  snap 
ping  as  the  twigs  caught  flame  was  a  voice  of 
cheer  in  the  room. 

"Signora,"  Maria  said  beseechingly  to  the  old 
woman,  "I  am  horribly  hungry.  How  soon  may 
I  have  some  supper?" 

She  laid  her  veil  and  gloves  on  the  table,  and 
sat  down  with  a  sigh  of  content. 

The  old  woman  made  an  apologetic  gesture. 

"But  there  is  no  fire  in  the  stove,  Eccellenza ! 
I  shall  make  one  at  once,  but  it  will  take  time." 

Delia  Gandara  addressed  her  commandingly : 

"You  will  hurry,  Elena,  you  will  cajole  the 
fire,  and  what  can  you  give  the  contessa  to  eat, 
my  good  creature?"  He  said  in  French  to 
Maria:  "I  am  afraid  it  will  be  very  bad  and 
very  scant,  Madame." 

"Oh,  don't  say  so !  It  will  be  food,  and  I  am 
actually  starving." 

But  he  did  not  believe  her,  and  he  laughed, 
looking  at  her  with  the  same  eager  delight. 
105 


THE    BROKEN   BELL 

"Good — good!  Elena,  what  have  you  in  the 
house?" 

"Nothing !"  exclaimed  the  woman  mournfully, 
"absolutely  nothing !" 

"Dio  TTzio/"  cried  Delia  Gandara  violently, 
"don't  dare  to  say  such  a  thing.  Go  at  once  and 
get  something.  Go!" 

And  as  she  fluttered  out  like  a  chased  hen, 
Delia  Gandara  said : 

"I'm  afraid  it's  true.  These  creatures  keep  no 
provisions ;  they  live  on  broth  and  macaroni." 

"Let  her  give  me  that,"  cried  poor  Maria, 
"call  her  and  tell  her  to  fetch  what  she  can." 

"I  will  go  myself,"  said  Delia  Gandara.  "I 
will  make  the  fire  and  superintend  your  supper." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  PILGRIM  TARRIES 

SHE  waited  patiently  in  the  shining  parlor 
by  the  great  fire,  and  drew  her  chair  up  to 
it  and  put  out  her  feet  in  their  web-like  silk 
stockings  and  little  shoes  suitable  for  the  Corso 
at  Rome  on  a  fine  morning. 

The  fire  burned  magnificently  in  the  wide 
hearth;  from  the  sweet  cones  the  resin  ran  out 
unctuously,  and  its  odor  like  incense  filled  the 
room  and  rose  to  the  altar  made  by  the  picture 
of  the  Virgin  over  the  hearth.  Maria  heard  the 
voices  of  the  field-hands  trooping  home,  and  the 
sputtering  of  the  kitchen  stove.  She  heard  the 
breaking  of  sticks  and  the  subdued  and  apolo 
getic  voice  of  the  poor  innkeeper,  and  the  eager 
commanding  voice  of  Delia  Gandara.  She  closed 
her  eyes  and  listened,  found  it  delightful,  deli- 
107 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

clous,  restful,  promising  care  and  nourishment 
and  peace.  She  was  grateful  to  Delia  Gandara 
and  to  Elena.  She  had  nearly  reached  the  goal 
of  her  pilgrimage — Le  Baize!  What  a  singu 
larly  magnetic  and  appealing  face  this  man  had ! 
And  how  strange  for  him  to  be  buried  here  for 
ever,  she  reflected,  and  sat  musing,  fanned  by  the 
fire's  fragrance,  when  he  came  in,  followed  by 
Elena,  who  fetched  a  table-cloth  and  knives  and 
forks. 

Delia  Gandara  stood  between  the  fire  and 
Maria,  a  big  beautifully-made  man,  broad-shoul 
dered,  with  muscles  and  fiber  fine  as  silk  and 
strong  as  steel. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  asked  abruptly,  "how  un 
usual  a  sight  you  are  in  Pieve,  Contessa?  We 
are  mountaineers — you  come  from  the  valley, 
from  many  towns — we  are  the  only  town.  We 
are  really  the  first  town  on  the  Tiber,  prouder 
than  Rome  and  as  wild  as  wolves." 

"Really?"  she  smiled.     "You  look  as  gentle 
as  lambs !     Your  streets  are  full  of  lambs.     I 
108 


THE    PILGRIM    TARRIES 

never  saw  such  flocks.  And  I  am  going  on  to 
Le  Baize.  That  is  the  first  town  on  the  Tiber 
and  it  must  be  wilder  still." 

"Le  Baize?"  he  shrugged.  "Le  Baize  is  noth 
ing  but  a  hovel.  We  are  a  city  with  a  cathedral, 
a  mayor,  a  doctor — I  know,  for  they  are  all  be 
fore  you.  7  am  all  of  them  except  the  priest.  I 
am  not  a  priest." 

Elena,  who  had  come  in,  whispered  humbly : 

"If  the  noble  Signora  will  turn  around,  she 
will  see  what  her  servant  has  done  for  her." 

Maria  turned,  to  see  on  a  platter  two  small 
broiled  fish,  a  dish  of  macaroni  swimming  in 
grease,  a  piece  of  bread  with  a  crust  like  wood, 
and  of  wood  color,  and  a  glass  of  pale  wine. 
Delia  Gandara  placed  a  chair  for  her.  The  fish 
were  fried  in  rancid  butter,  and  had  been  badly 
cleaned.  Poor  Maria  swallowed  a  mouthful  of 
the  vinegar  in  her  glass  which  burned  her  throat 
like  fire. 

Delia  Gandara  watched  her. 

"No,  no,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  "it  is  too 
109 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

dreadful.  And  I  can  see  that  the  macaroni  will 
be  worse.  Elena !  Madonna  mia  ...  !"  And 
he  broke  forth  in  a  fury  as  wild  as  the  wolves  he 
had  spoken  of.  Under  his  scolding  the  old 
woman  ran  out  weeping.  When  she  had  gone 
Maria  succeeded  in  attracting  his  attention. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  he  said  absent-mindedly. 

"Why,  you  are  quite  terrible!  I  wouldn't 
have  you  speak  like  that  to  her  for  worlds !  Poor 
thing,  she  will  wish  me  out  of  the  house." 

"It  will  teach  her  a  lesson.  They  are  all  bar 
barians.  She  will  have  to  find  provisions;  What 
will  you  think  of  Pieve!" 

Hoping  against  hope  she  broke  a  piece  of 
bread.  It  was  as  sour  as  the  wine  but  she  de 
voured  it  hungrily.  Delia  Gandara  walked  up 
and  down  the  room~v  not  at  all  hungry  himself, 
he  was  unable  to  fathom  how  Maria  craved  food. 
His  anger  cooled. 

"Couldn't  you  get  me  a  glass  of  fresh  milk, 
perhaps?"  she  pleaded.     "I  am  sure  the  cows 
have  all  been  driven  in  at  any  rate !" 
110 


THE    PILGRIM    TARRIES 

"Of  course,  of  course,  why  didn't  we  think  of 
it?  Elena,  Elena !"  he  called.  He  ran  out  where 
the  old  thing  stood  weeping  by  her  stove.  He 
thrust  a  straw-covered  bottle  into  her  hand  and 
sent  her  like  Rachel  to  the  fountain. 

To  Father  Faversham  Maria  had  said  she  was 
not  superstitious,  and  she  thought  of  it  as  she 
waited  for  the  milk. 

"I  am  being  starved  evidently  for  some  pur 
pose.  What  does  it  mean  that  I  am  not  permit 
ted  to  eat?" 

She  would  not  complain,  however.  It  seemed 
ridiculous  and  already  she  was  causing  bother 
enough  and  trouble  enough  in  the  town,  but  she 
fancied  that  her  very  eyes  and  face  must  seem 
famished. 

Delia  Gandara  sat  down  by  the  table,  leaning 
on  it. 

"How  does  it  happen,"  he  asked  her,  "that 
Sant'  Alcione  lets  you  come  here  like  this  alone? 
Don't  answer  me  if  I  am  rude,  but  how  does  it 
happen  ?" 

Ill 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

For  some  reason  or  other  she  thought  it  would 
be  amusing  to  mystify  him. 

"Oh,  women  do  many  things  alone  nowadays," 
she  replied.  "And  I  am  an  American.  We  are 
very  emancipated." 

Delia  Gandara  repeated  "American"  with  hor 
ror  in  his  voice,  then  said: 

"Oh,  pray  don't  say  such  a  thing ;  French  per 
haps,  never  American.  I  have  seen  them  touring 
in  Rome." 

"But  I  am  really  Italian,"  she  smiled,  "and 
have  nearly  forgotten  that  there  is  anything  but 
Italy  in  the  way  of  a  country." 

He  murmured  to  himself:  "American!"  then 
added:  "I  thought  you  came  from  far  away 
when  you  appeared  at  the  gate,  as  far  away  at 
least  as  the  Corso,  but  I  did  not  know  that  you 
came  from  such  a  dreadful  distance.  ...  I  had 
heard  of  Gigi's  marriage  too,  but  I  had  forgot 
ten  it." 

She  saw  a  quick  cloud  gather  and  settle  on  his 
face  until  it  was  positively  black. 
112 


THE    PILGRIM    TARRIES 

"I  have  forgotten  many  things,"  he  finished, 
and  rose  abruptly,  as  he  did  everything,  in  a 
manner  almost  savage  in  its  bruskness. 

"Here  is  Elena.  This  time  she  seems  to  have 
brought  you  the  contents  of  a  whole  cow.  Drink, 
Madame,  and  be  blessed." 

Elena,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  put  on  the 
table  a  bottle  holding  nearly  a  gallon  of  milk. 
The  milk  was  warm;  Maria  felt  it  through  the 
bottle.  Delia  Gandara  left  her,  asking  if  he 
might  return  later  to  see  how  she  was  faring, 
and  Elena  went  to  prepare  her  room. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN   THE   FRESH   MORNING 

IT  was  past  midnight  when  she  found  herself 
alone.  Under  her  feet  the  floor  was  bare; 
there  was  a  tiny  window  opening  on  the  roof, 
where  the  doves  had  gone  to  sleep  in  a  soft  bunch. 
A  small  bed  with  spotless  linen,  a  small  table, 
formed  the  furnishings.  Over  the  bed  hung  a 
crucifix.  The  place  was  as  remote  and  comfort 
less  as  a  cell. 

Delia  Gandara  had  tried  to  persuade  her  that 
no  one  had  ever  heard  of  Le  Baize. 

"It  may  exist,  undoubtedly  does,  since  you  say 
so,  but  you  mustn't  "go  to  it;  it  would  be  madness 
in  this  weather ;  the  snows  are  deep  on  the  moun 
tains." 

"I  must  go  to-morrow." 

"You  must  at  least  wait  until  you  have  seen 
the  wonderful  monastery  of  Sant'  Angelo." 
114 


IN    THE    FRESH    MORNING 

Maria,  with  the  remembrance  of  San  Marcello 
vivid  in  her  mind,  said  that  she  did  not  wish  to 
see  a  religious  house. 

"Are  you  anti-clerical?"  Delia  Gandara  had 
asked  her,  and  followed  with,  "I  half  believe  that 
you  came  here  on  a  pilgrimage." 

He  had  stayed  talking  with  her  before  the  fire 
until  she  herself  had  risen  and  bidden  him  good 
night. 

Maria's  bed  was  higK  and  narrow ;  she  felt  the 
mattress,  it  was  filled  with  straw.  There  was  not 
a  single  sound  to  break  the  silence. 

The  following  morning  she  was  wakened  at 
cockcrow,  and  one  after  another  the  outdoor 
sounds  came  bravely:  the  lowing  of  the  cows 
driven  to  pasture,  the  bleating  of  sheep  driven  to 
the  fields ;  the  singing  of  the  shepherds  and  the 
shrill  cry  of  their  pipes.  No  one  came  to  her, 
and  when  she  rose  and  called  for  Elena  there  was 
no  response.  She  folded  herself  in  her  dressing- 
gown,  slipped  through  the  open  granary  to  the 
115 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

head  of  the  stairs,  and  called.    To  her  astonish 
ment  Delia  Gandara  answered : 

"Good  morning,  good  morning !" 

She  retired  precipitately. 

"Please  stay  where  you  are.  Good  morning! 
Where  is  Elena?" 

"Do  you  need  her?" 

Poor  Maria !  Water,  a  bath,  food,  a  hand  to 
help,  she  needed  everything.  She  told  him  that 
she  would  come  down  at  once,  dashed  cold  water 
over  her  face,  made  what  toilet  she  could.  In  her 
mirror  she  saw  her  hair  frame  a  countenance 
which  should  have  been  full  of  fatigue.  On  the 
contrary  there  was  a  blossom-like  freshness  on 
her  cheek.  Without  putting  on  her  hat  she  ran 
down-stairs  eagerly,  and  as  though  he  had  waited 
there  without  moving  since  the  night  before, 
Delia  Gandara  leaned  against  the  door  of  the 
parlor.  In  his  hand  he  had  a  great  bunch  of 
apricot  blossoms. 

"How  did  you  sleep,  Contessa?" 

She  took  the  flowers ;  they  filled  her  arms. 
116 


"Poor  Elena,"  he  explained,  "has  gone  to  care 
for  a  woman  whose  husband  has  been  gored  by  a 
bull.  I  have  done  what  I  could  for  the  man.  He 
is  a  philosopher  and  resigned :  it  is  his  wife  who 
makes  the  scene !" 

"I  don't  believe  the  woman  needs  Elena  half 
as  much  as  I  do,"  said  the  contessa.  "However, 
I  shall  not  make  a  scene,  but  I  think  if  I  don't 
have  something  to  eat,  and  that  very  shortly,  I 
shall  die!" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  His  eager  face 
clouded. 

"Cara  Contessa,"  he  exclaimed.  "You  can't 
imagine  how  troubled  I  am!  What  boors  and 
barbarians  you  must  think  us !  You  were  so  gra 
cious  to  come  to  Pieve,  and  it  doesn't  extend  you 
hospitality.  Will  you  not  forgive  us?  Be  as 
indulgent  as  you  can." 

He  turned  with  her  from  bare  cupboard  to 
bare  cupboard :  it  was  as  though  there  had  been 
a  famine  in  the  land.     A  sudden  dizziness  and 
faintness  seized  her.    She  murmured: 
117 


THE    BROKEN    BELt 

"I  seem  to  be  under  a  ban  of  excommunication. 
I  think  I  am  destined  to  starve  to  death." 

Delia  Gandara  opened  a  wooden  box  desper 
ately  and  found  a  great  loaf  of  sour  bread. 

"Look!"  he  cried  triumphantly.  "Here  is 
your  breakfast !  I  will  run  home  and  fetch  you 
honey  and  milk.  Here  is  water,"  he  said,  lifting 
a  pitcher  from  the  window-sill.  "I  shall  be  back 
directly." 

Maria  broke  the  bread  to  bits  and  ate  it  me 
chanically,  and  smiled  at  herself.  She  ate  with 
content.  Delia  Gandara  had  seized  his  soft  hat 
and  flown.  She  poured  herself  out  a  glass  of 
water  and  drank  it ;  the  cool  liquid  had  the  taste 
of  flowers :  it  was  soft  and  sweet. 

"How  alive  he  is,"  she  thought,  "what  spirit 
and  vigor!  My  miserable  weakness  does  not 
touch  him.  He  looks  as  though  he  lived  on  moun 
tain  air." 

Through  the  front  of  the  house  a  little  girl 
came  rushing  in,  calling  shrilly : 

"Mama  mia!  il  dottore,  il  signore  dottore!" 
118 


IN    THE    FRESH   MORNING 

Maria  saw  a  child  of  some  ten  years  of  age  in 
wooden  shoes,  her  wild  hair  about  a  wild  face,  a 
shepherd's  cloak  around  her  shoulders. 

"The  doctor  is  not  here,"  Maria  told  her. 
"What  is  wrong,  my  child?" 

"Father,"  said  the  child,  staring.  "His  band 
age  has  slipped.  He  is  bleeding  to  death.  He 
was  trying  to  get  to  mother." 

Maria  pushed  her  to  the  door. 

"The  doctor  has  gone  home.  Run  after  him, 
you  will  meet  him  on  the  way.  Run !" 

The  child  kicked  off  her  sabots  and  ran  bare 
foot,  her  shepherd's  cloak,  her  brown  hair  stream 
ing. 

On  the  table  at  Maria's  side  lay  the  boughs  of 
apricot  blossoms,  fine  as  shells  in  color;  at  her 
feet  were  the  sabots  of  the  dirty  little  peasant. 

"No  wonder,"  she  mused,  "he  seems  so  full  of 
life.  How  useful  and  important  he  is  to  them 
all  here." 

She  finished  her  bread  and  drank  another  glass 
of  water,  and  bareheaded  wandered  slowly 
119 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

through  the  kitchen  to  the  porch,  descended  the 
stone  steps  to  the  street,  now  filled  with  cattle 
and  flocks  and  shepherds.  Above  them  shone 
the  sunlight.  The  gray  sky  rifted  and  over 
Pieve  floated  a  great  expanse  of  blue.  Maria 
walked  uncertainly  in  the  direction  the  little  girl 
had  taken  with  her  flying  bare  feet. 

She  was  regarded  curiously  by  the  peasants  as 
she  made  her  way  through  the  arch  where  Delia 
Gandara  and  the  child  had  disappeared.  Before 
her  stretched  a  white  road,  and  side  by  side 
Maria  saw  the  child  and  Gandara,  the  little 
thing's  running  steps  keeping  pace  with  the 
man's  long  strides. 

To  the  north  the  walls  of  the  Apennines  lifted 
their  defenses,  scarred  with  time  and  bright  with 
the  morning,  their,  sides  in  the  light  like  banks  of 
violets  in  English  woods,  and  far  down  them 
spread  the  snows.  Following  the  figures  before 
her,  Maria  took  a  road  to  the  right  toward  a 
brown  hut,  the  color  of  the  earth,  where  from 
the  chimney  rose  a  fillet  of  azure  smoke.  She 
120 


IN    THE    FRESH    MORNING 

followed  the  others  into  a  cabin,  blackened  like 
ebony  with  the  fires  of  centuries. 

A  man  lay  on  the  ground,  his  head  in  the  lap 
of  Elena  of  the  Seven}  Doves,  and  a  moaning 
sound  came  from  a  kneeling  woman  who  pressed 
the  peasant's  feet  to  her  breast.  The  woman 
might  have  been  a  ghoul,  she  was  so  warped  and 
yellow.  She  was  the  man's  mother  and  ninety 
years  old.  Close  by  the  hearth,  which  was  but  a 
hole  in  the  floor,  stood  the  only  bed,  and  on  it 
cowered  a  young  woman,  a  nursing  child  at  her 
breast.  She  was  weeping  and  wringing  her 
hands. 

The  face  of  the  wounded  man  impressed 
Maria.  His  face  was,  deadly  white,  his  black 
mustache  and  black  hair  were  like  velvet  against 
ivory,  and  the  linen  on  his  breast  was  red  with 
blood. 

As  he  bent  over  the  man,  Delia  Gandara  heard 
a  gentle  voice  ask  him : 

"Let  me  help?  won't  you  ?  I  will  be  better  than 
the  child." 

121 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

He  gave  Maria  a  quick  look  of  thanks,  took 
her  presence  for  granted,  and  directed  her  sharp 
ly.  With  hands  that  trembled  and  yet  were 
strong,  she  helped  him  bind  the  bleeding  man. 
Once  she  said  in  French  to  him: 

"Can't  you  beat  that  woman  and  silence  her? 
Why  does  she  keep  the  bed  and  give  her  husband 
the  floor?" 

Delia  Gandara  answered :  "She  is  paralyzed." 

When  she  finally  found  herself  with  Delia 
Gandara  outside  the  door  the  white  road  and  the 
landscape  went  round  her  in  dizzy  circles.  A 
mist  red  as  blood  swam  before  her  eyes ;  she  was 
conscious  of  his  voice,  then  a  sea  drowned  every 
thing  and  she  felt  his  arm  about  her  and  knew 
that  she  leaned  a  moment  against  him.  She  had 
never  fainted ;  she  Was  ashamed  of  her  weakness. 
The  little  girl  held  up  a  glass  of  goat's  milk, 
warm  from  the  udder ;  Maria  drained  it :  it  was 
like  nectar.  She  asked  for  more  weakly,  and 
while  the  shepherdess  milked  at  her  side,  Maria 
leaned  on  Delia  Gandara's  arm  and  drank  again. 
122 


IN    THE    FRESH   MORNING 

The  old  mother  came  out,  her  pockets  full  of 
the  lira  Maria  had  given  her. 

"The  grace  of  God  go  with  you,  Madonna," 
she  said,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

As  they  walked  back  to  Pieve  the  bells  she  had 
heard  the  night  before  rang  distinctly,  and  Delia 
Gandara  told  her  that  they  were  the  bells  of 
Sant'  Angelo,  where  he  had  wished  to  take  her. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHERE  IS  LE  BALZE? 

THE  rain  fell  sharply.  Maria  refused 
Delia  Gandara's  hat  and  coat  and  shook 
the  drops  from  her  hair;  her  shoulders  were  wet 
when  she  reached  the  inn. 

During  her  absence  the  Seven  Doves  had  be 
come  animated.  A  chattering  group  of  habitues 
— peasants  waiting  for  the  diligence  to  San  Se- 
polcro — crowded  round  the  table  in  the  parlor, 
eating  bread  and  drinking  Chianti.  They  stared 
at  the  lady  who  passed  through  to  the  kitchen 
where  a  big-eyed  serving  woman  was  cooking 
macaroni. 

Maria  pointed  to  the  dish,  and  begged :  "Give 
me  some,"  and  smiled  with  anticipation.  Eager 
ly  and  without  sitting  down  she  ate  hun 
grily  ;  then  asked  of  the  woman : 


WHERE    IS    LE   BALZE? 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Le  Baize?" 

"Peppo,"  returned  the  woman,  "he  is  in  there 
now,  and  Adamo  Calendro  are  from  Le  Baize, 
but  I  do  not  know  where  it  is." 

"Hush,"  said  the  contessa,  "don't  call  them." 

She  glanced  at  the  half-drunken  peasant. 

Delia  Gandara,  on  the  way  home,  had  flatly 
refused  to  hear  of  her  going. 

"It  means  eight  hours  in  the  saddle,"  he  said, 
"even  if  there  were  a  saddle  or  a  horse.  This 
afternoon  if  the  sun  shines,  I  shall  take  you  to 
Sant'  Angelo." 

She  now  went  back  to  her  room,  where,  in  her 
absence,  the  servant  had  made  order.  She  took 
off  her  wet  clothes,  wrapped  herself  in  her  trav 
eling-cloak,  and  threw  herself  down  to  rest. 
These  were  the  first  moments  of  quiet  she  had 
known  since  morning,  and  as  soon  as  she  closed 
her  eyes  the  form  and  face  of  Delia  Gandara 
filled  her  mind.  She  remembered  his  expression 
when  she  had  first  come  down  that  morning,  when 
he  had  given  her  the  branches  of  apricot  blos- 
125 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

soms.    He  had  in  reality  asked  her  how  she  slept, 
but  his  voice,  his  face,  said : 

"Since  I  left  you  I  have  thought  of  nothing 
but  you." 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed,  where  she  had  slipped 
them  off,  were  her  high-heeled  silver-buckled 
shoes,  covered  with  dirt  and  mud.  She  had 
fetched  stouter  ones  in  her  bag,  foreseeing  a 
mountain  climb.  She  would  go  to  Le  Baize  to 
morrow  whether  Delia  Gandara  helped  her  or  not. 
Sandro  della  Gandara !  She  had  seen  his  pic 
ture  indifferently  in  Naples,  and  here  she  was 
cast  with  him  in  this  desolate  town.  Maria  had 
been  charmed  by  his  delicacy  and  strength  as  he 
had  held  wine  to  the  lips  of  the  wounded  peasant, 
and  had  lifted  the  wife  from  her  bed,  carried  her 
to  her  husband  that  he  might  embrace  her,  and, 
without  so  much  as  a  flush  on  his  cool  dark  cheek, 
had  replaced  the  woman  on  her  own  cot. 

Thinking  of  Della  Gandara,  she  fell  asleep, 
and  old  Elena  came  softly  in  at  noon  and  waked 
her. 

126 


WHERE    IS    LE    BALZE? 

"Signora,  the  Marchese  della  Gandara  is 
waiting." 

Maria  sprang  up  confused.  Old  Elena  looked 
at  her  curiously,  and  picked  up  the  dusty  shoes. 

"How  could  one  walk  in  such  things,  Signora 
mia?" 

She  tenderly  shod  Maria's  feet  and  dusted  the 
shoes  with  her  apron. 

As  she  had  asked  of  the  servant,  Maria  now 
asked  of  Elena : 

"Where  is  Le  Baize?  I  must  go  there.  I 
have  come  to  Pieve  to  go  to  Le  Baize." 

Maria  with  a  sweeping  gesture  spread  out  her 
loosened  hair,  coiled  it,  put  in  the  great  pins. 
The  flush  of  sleep  was  bright  in  her  cheeks  and 
eyes. 

"Le  Baize,"  returned  the  old  Elena,  "why, 
it  is  at  the  top  of  the  Apennines,  Signora.  Peo 
ple  come  from  there  but  no  one  ever  goes  there." 

Maria  laughed  and  ran  down  the  narrow 
stairs. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LITTLE  SANDRO's  MOTHER 

SHE  found  Delia  Gandara  walking  up  and 
down  the  polished  floor,  his  hands  behind 
his  back. 

"Were  you  wet?"  he  asked  her.  "Did  you  get 
dry  ?  Ah !"  he  flung  out  his  hands.  "You  look 
as  though  you  had  blossomed  after  the  shower. 
Did  you  keep  the  apricot  blossoms  ?" 

Behind  him  the  fire  burned  loudly. 

"It  is  letting  forth  its  imprisoned  suns,"  he 
said  to  her.  "Think  how  many  years  that  burn 
ing  wood  has  held  the  light,  Madame !" 

He  drew  a  chair  out  for  her,  took  one  himself, 
threw  himself  on  it  rather,  and  offered  her  a 
cigarette  from  his  case. 

"I  slept  deliciously,"  Maria  told  him.  "The 
air  is  wonderful.  It  will  be  even  more  wonder- 
128 


LITTLE    SANDRO'S    MOTHER 

ful  at  Le  Baize.  I  have  asked  Elena  if  she  knows 
where  it  is,  but  .  .  ." 

He  threw  away  his  cigarette  sharply.  It  hit 
the  logs  and  was  whirled  up  in  a  little  flame. 

"What  is  this  about  Le  Baize?"  he  asked 
directly.  "Tell  me,  and  why  are  you  really  here  ? 
Are  you  eccentric?"  He  nodded  and  smiled. 
"No,  you  are  only  a  foolish  woman :  you  are  not 
strong-minded,  you  would  not  wear  high-heeled 
shoes  and  thin  silk  stockings  in  bad  weather  if 
you  were.  You  need  to  be  scolded.  But  really, 
really,  Le  Baize  in  the  cold  spring !  Why  no  one 
would  go  there  for  a  tour  of  pleasure  at  any 
time." 

When  she  started  to  answer  he  interrupted 
her  with  a  quick  gesture : 

"Never  mind,  I  don't  want  to  hear.  It  would 
make  me  angry,  I  dare  say.  At  any  rate,  you 
mustn't  go." 

He  looked  her  frankly  in  the  eyes.     His  face 
expressed  the  pure  entire  satisfaction  of  one  who 
sees  a  beautiful  object  and  finds  it  to  his  liking. 
129 


"Do  you  know  how  long  It  is,  Contessa,  since 
I  have  seen  a  woman  like  you  ?" 

She  did  not  wish  him  to  know  that  she  had  any 
suspicion  of  his  mistaken  marriage. 

"My  husband  told  me  that  you  were  some 
thing  of  a  hermit.  Do  you  never  come  to 
Rome?" 

He  exclaimed:  "I  never  leave  Pieve.  I  have 
not  left  this  valley  for  ten  years." 

She  said  slowly :  "Pieve  must  be  a  magnetic 
place.  It  drew  you  originally  and  it  has  kept 
you." 

"And  it  has  drawn  you,  too,"  he  cried  quickly, 
"but  it  will  not  keep  you."  He  laughed.  "After 
all,  Le  Baize  is  the  magnet,  but  you  shall  not  go 
there  if  I  can  help  it." 

Here  the  storm,  like  a  bird,  threw  its  wings 
and  beat  its  beak  against  the  pane. 

"Listen,"  he  murmured,  "that's  the  way  the 
Tiber  country  talks !" 

Maria  observed  him  with  interest;  his  dress, 
his  linen,  the  cut  of  his  clothes,  were  irrcproach- 
130 


able,  worldly  and  fashionable,  though  suited  to 
his  country  life. 

"You  don't  look  in  the  least  like  an  expatri 
ate,"  she  said. 

"Don't  I?"  he  returned.  "Well,  I  am  glad  of 
it.  Certain  things  always  persist,  don't  they? 
If  some  day  you  find  me  tilling  the  fields,  I  shall 
still  have  my  shirts  made  in  Bond  Street  and  or 
der  my  clothes  from  Poole's." 

She  laughed.  His  companionship  was  begin 
ning  to  be  delightful  to  her.  From  the  first  she 
had  felt  a  sense  of  friendliness  for  this  big 
splendid  man. 

"Now,"  he  cried,  "talk  to  me.  Tell  me  things. 
Give  me  a  taste  and  a  sight  of  the  Corso,  and  the 
Riviera  di  Chiaja.  What  is  the  last  new  book 
and  the  last  new  scandal?" 

He  talked  quickly,  his  eyes  intent  upon  her, 
and  he  suddenly  stopped  himself  and  said : 

"It  is  curious,  Contessa,  but  I  have  an  idea 
that  to  get  away  from  that  sort  of  thing  you 
have  come  to  Umbria  on  this  singular  journey. 
131 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Are  you  trying  to  escape  what  I  have  'denied  my 
self  for  ten  years  ?  I  expect  you  have  been  feed 
ing  on  it  too  richly." 

"And  you,  on  the  contrary,  have  been  starv 
ing?"  she  asked,  and  immediately  regretted  the 
personal  question. 

He  answered :  "No,  I  have  not  been  starving 
for  any  of  those  things.  If  I  could  have  fed  on 
such  things  as  those  I  should  not  be  so  .  .  ." 
He  did  not  finish. 

"Then,"  said  the  contessa,  "I  am  to  envy 
you?" 

Even  as  she  said  this  she  felt  a  great  disap 
pointment.  "  .  .  .  You  are  one  of  those  con 
tented  pastoral  philosophers,  and  a  happy  man  ?" 

Delia  Gandara  threw  his  head  up  and  ex 
claimed  : 

"I  am  intensely,  profoundly  wretched.  I 
don't  believe  there  is  a  more  miserable  man  in  the 
world." 

He  held  the  last  word  between  his  teeth  and 
looked  at  her  almost  defiantly.  She  saw  his 
132 


LITTLE    SANDRO'S    MOTHER 

hands  tighten  and  grow  white,  and  his  face  fall 
into  profound  melancholy.  His  deep-set  eyes 
were  the  same  as  those  which  had  appealed  to  her 
in  the  photograph  her  husband  had  showed  her 
in  Naples.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  words 
laid  bare  to  her  an  intense  unhappiness,  Maria 
felt  the  rising  of  a  tide,  the  stirring  of  her  na 
ture,  the  beating  against  her  breast  of  impris 
oned  wings.  In  a  low  tone  she  murmured : 

"I,  too,  am  profoundly  unhappy :  that  is  why 
I  have  come  away  from  Naples." 

"Ah,"  he  breathed,  leaning  across  the  table, 
"Sanf  Alcione  is  a  fool  and  a  brute  ...  I  beg 
your  pardon  if  I  have  made  you  angry." 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  do  not  make  me  angry," 
she  returned. 

He  went  on:  "When  I  heard — for  we  hear 
things  in  Pieve — that  Gigi  had  married  a  rich 
American,  I  pitied  the  poor  girl." 

Turning  upon  her  with  almost  a  crude  impet- 
uousness,  he  asked: 

"Does  he  make  you  suffer?" 
133 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"No,"  she  exclaimed,  "oh,  no!" 

"Then  you  don't  love  him." 

He  drew  the  conclusion  with  satisfaction,  and 
repeated  his  assertion  as  a  question : 

"Do  you  love  him?" 

"No." 

Delia  Gandara  sprang  up,  went  over  to  the 
fire  and  laid  on  more  fagots  and  more  cones. 
The  light  shone  redly  upon  him,  and  the  rich 
incense  floated  out  into  the  room.  The  ruddy  re 
flection  of  the  flames  shone  upon  the  glass  of  the 
Virgin's  picture  and  flickered  on  the  pierced 
heart.  From  outside,  there  came  the  sound  of 
children's  feet,  and  at  the  latch  of  the  door  there 
were  little  hands  feeling  to  turn  the  knob.  The 
door  was  cautiously  opened:  Maria  looked  up 
to  see  two  children,  a  tiny  girl  with  eyes  like  vio 
lets  and  a  rosy  little  boy ;  each  carried  a  basket. 
They  wore  dark  blue  cloaks  and  woolen  caps, 
from  under  which  curls  came  in  abundance.  Very 
timidly  the  children  crossed  the  floor  toward 
Maria. 

134 


LITTLE    SANDRO'S    MOTHER 

"See,"  whispered  the  little  boy,  "see  Armando 
andLilli!" 

Where  he  stood  by  the  fire  Delia  Gandara 
turned  and  beckoned  to  them.  Maria  took  the 
baskets  from  their  hands. 

"They  have  brought  you  eggs  and  honey, 
Madame;  they  couldn't  carry  anything  more 
weighty.  They  have  never  spoken  to  a  stranger 
before." 

Little  Sandro's  mother  leaned  toward  them. 
Children !  Children ! 

It  was  her  habit  to  avoid  them  everywhere. 
Her  friends  never  brought  their  children  to  see 
her.  She  passed  children  by  cruelly  in  the  street. 
The  little  chap  was  sturdy  and  vigorous:  his 
round  fascinated  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the 
lady:  his  lips  were  a  little  uncertain  as  he  held 
out  the  basket  stiffly.  Maria  kissed  him  on  his 
firm  cheeks.  He  smelled  fresh  and  sweet  with  the 
indescribable  odor  of  childhood  and  babyhood. 
She  buried  her  face  in  his  soft  neck  and  kissed 
him  passionately,  and  then  pushed  him  away  and 
135 


THE    BROKEN    BELU 

rising  hastily  fled  up-stairs,  where  she  burst  into 
a  tempest  of  tears.  Her  face  was  buried  in  her 
hands,  she  stood  shaking  in  her  grief,  and  she 
was  so  overwhelmed  that  when  Delia  Gandara  put 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder  she  was  not  surprised 
at  his  presence. 

"Ah !"  he  exclaimed  ardently,  "something  has 
hurt  you.  Forgive  me ;  forgive  me !  I  see  that 
I  have  done  you  harm.  Don't  weep  so,  don't! 
What  have  I  done?  What  did  the  children 
do?" 

"Go,"  she  begged  him,  "what  have  you  come 
up  here  for?  Go  down.  Don't  be  disturbed. 
It's  nothing.  Leave  me !" 

She  did  not  look  at  him,  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  heard  him  plead  that  she  would  come 
back. 

"What  shall  I  do  without  you  if  you  do  not? 
Why  should  you  weep  in  solitude?  Come  down 
and  weep  by  the  fire  and  with  me. 

"I  am  free  to-day,"  he  went  on,  "I  have  a 
couple  of  hours  of  freedom.  No  one  has  sent  for 
136 


LITTLE    SANDRO'S    MOTHER 

me.    I  am  lonely.    Will  you  not  be  merciful  and 
come  down?" 

She  promised  to  do  so,  and  he  left  her.  She 
dried  her  tears  slowly,  cooled  her  hot  cheeks,  and 
under  the  suffering  that  the  boy's  touch  had 
awakened,  she  was  conscious  of  another  emotion. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    HEART    OF   A   HERMIT 

THE  wood  Delia  Gandara  had  thrown  on  the 
fire  twisted  and  broke  and  burst  into  joy 
ous  flames  of  blue  and  lavender,  ruby  and  scar 
let,  and  in  the  heat  one  pine-cone,  complete  in 
form,  bell-like,  remained  calcinated  to  ash  and 
yet  undestroyed.  Its  shape  recalled  to  Maria  the 
bell  in  the  belfry  of  San  Marcello.  This  frail 
cone  had  come  through  a  more  intense  ordeal,  the 
trial  by  fire.  It  retained  its  complete  shape, 
spectral  white,  made  of  ash  ...  As  Maria 
watched  it,  it  dissolved  into  the  flames. 

Delia  Gandara  and  the  contessa,  on  either  side 
of  the  fire,  looked  at  each  other  while  the  rain 
beat  and  drove  against  the  inn ;  once  a  gust  blew 
open  the  door,  and  terrified  by  the  storm,  a  dove 
flew  in  and  around  the  room,  beating  the  walls. 
138 


THE    HEART    OF    A    HERMIT 

Maria  would  not  let  him  drive  it  away.  It  found 
a  shelter  over  the  picture  of  the  Virgin,  and  hud 
dled  there,  a  gray  ruffled  thing  in  the  warm 
room.  As  Maria  glanced  across  at  him,  he  said 
to  her : 

"Forgive  me.  I  told  you  we  were  barbarians 
here.  I  didn't  know  that  we  could  torture  like 
that.  What  have  I  done?  Those  were  my  little 
children.  I  thought  they  would  do  you  a  kind 
ness.  They  have  only  brought  you  some  singu 
lar  pain.  Tell  me,  is  it  because  .  .  ."  and  she 
was  touched  to  see  the  softening  of  his  mobile 
face,  "is  it  because  of  something  you  have  lost?" 

She  bowed  her  head. 

The  man  drew  a  long  breath  and  said :  "Ah," 
with  deep  feeling.  Still  looking  at  her  he 
waited,  and  though  she  had  not  thought  to  speak 
to  him  of  such  a  sacred  thing,  she  began : 

"I  had  a  little  child.     You  know  what  that 

means,  that  is,  you  know*  as  a  father  knows.     I 

think  mothers  feel  it  deeper.     I  adored  him  and 

he  died.     That's  all.     Please  don't  speak  of  it 

139 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

again.  It  was  very  uncontrolled  of  me,  but  the 
touch  of  your  little  boy's  cheek  .  .  ." 

He  interrupted  her: 

"I  know.  I  see.  I  sent  Armando  to  comfort 
you  and  he  hurt  you.  Of  course,"  he  exclaimed 
passionately,  "you  can't  forgive  us." 

"Armando !    Is  that  his  name  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  father,  "and  the  little  girl's 
name  is  Lilli." 

"And  you,"  said  she,  "have  the  same  name  as 
my  son." 

As  though  he  wanted  to  change  her  point  of 
view  he  said: 

"You  have  only  been  here  twenty-four  hours, 
Madame.  Yesterday  when  you  came  I  was  talk 
ing  under  the  arch  with  Giovanni  Pullelli.  I  was 
telling  him  how  to  rub  his  wife's  paralyzed 
limbs.  Now  he  is  worse  off  than  she  is.  I  can 
never  stand  there  again  without  seeing  you  as 
you  appeared  in  this  little  forgotten  place.  It 
seemed  as  though  you  came  from  the  unknown 
and  called  to  me.  Listen  to  the  storm,  how  it 
140 


THE    HEART    OF    A    HERMIT 

beats  on  the  window,  and  look  what  a  warm  and 
sweet  shelter  this  little  inn  makes  for  two.  You 
can  not  imagine,  Madame,  what  this  is  to  me,  for 
the  others  here  are  barbarians.  I  am  the  worst 
of  all,  because  I  knew  something  of  civilization 
and  yet  chose  this  life.  If  you  will  let  me  tell  you 
why  I  did  this,  you  will  understand  that  I  must 
yearn  and  long  for  things  which  I  have  shut  out 
from  myself  for  ever.  You,"  he  continued,  ex 
tending  his  hand,  "are  of  my  world,  of  the  world 
I  knew.  You  represent  what  has  been  shut  away 
from  me  for  ten  years.  Why,  I  can't  believe  my 
eyes  as  I  see  you  sit  there  in  your  charming 
dress,  civilized,  elegant,  worldly,  and  I  wonder 
how  soon  the  dream  will  break." 

Maria  watched  his  changing  positions  with 
pleasure.  He  was  very  graceful.  The  expres 
sions  that  crossed  his  face  were  charming.  He 
bent  over  and  linked  his  hands,  and  the  firelight 
shone  on  them.  From  her  perch  on  the  frame  of 
the  Virgin's  picture,  the  gray  dove  cooed  in  her 
throat. 

141 


"I  wonder,"  Delia  Gandara  asked,  "if  you 
would  care  to  hear  the  story  of  a  lost  man." 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  hear  anything  you  feel 
inclined  to  say." 

"I  must  smoke  as  I  talk,"  he  returned.  "You 
will  let  me  ?"  He  lighted  a  cigarette,  then  sprang 
up,  pushed  his  chair  aside,  and  smoking  began 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  long  room,  looking  at 
her  or  fastening  his  eyes  on  his  cigarette. 

"It  is  not  a  tragic  story,  the  story  of  a  man's 
follies  is  pathetic,  but  the  only  tragedy  in  it  is 
their  stupidity.  It  is  really  so  very  easy  to  avoid 
our  great  mistakes."  He  stopped  before  her 
chair  and  slightly  smiled,  looking  at  her  in 
tensely.  "Madame,"  he  said,  "did  you  hear  the 
poor  old  woman  in  the  hut  call  you  Madonna  yes 
terday?  She  only  said  what  I  had  already  felt. 
The  moment  I  saw  you  I  had  a  feeling  that  I  was 
looking  at  a  face  I  had  always  known.  .  .  ." 
He  waited  a  second,  and  then  added:  "And  al 
ways  adored.  People  have  often  told  you  of  this 
likeness,  have  they  not?" 
142 


THE    HEART   OF   A   HERMIT 

The  contessa  interrupted  him  with  a  shade  of 
pain  on  her  face: 

"Oh,  please  don't  say  such  a  thing.  It  shocks 
me  horribly !" 

"No  doubt,"  he  agreed,  "it  is  absurd  but  it  is 
probably  because  you  are  so  perfectly  beauti 
ful." 

His  companion  flushed  hotly  and  drew  her 
chair  away  from  the  fire. 

"Now,"  he  said,  and  threw  up  his  fine  head  as 
though  he  were  taking  courage  to  begin  a  con 
fession:  "I  shall  probably  monologue  for  an 
hour.  There  is  nothing  so  insatiable  of  time  as 
the  man  who  starts  off  on  his  life-history.  To 
begin  with,  I  was  an  idealist  and  a  dreamer,  and 
a  ridiculously  decent  young  man.  I  was  prepar 
ing  for  a  diplomatic  career  and  going  to  take  my 
post  in  Paris  in  the  autumn.  I  ran  up  to  Pieve 
one  August  to  see  my  old  instructor,  the  Padre 
Anselmo — your  husband  knows  him,  knew  him 
rather :  he  took  us  to  Syria.  He  later  joined  the 
order  here  in  Sant'  Angelo,  and  I  wanted  his 
143 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

blessing  before  I  went  Into  wicked  Paris.  It  wa* 
hot,  wonderful,  summer  weather.  I  put  up  here 
in  this  old  inn,  and  went  daily  to  see  the  father, 
and  one  evening  I  started  down  from  the  con 
vent." 

Delia  Gandara  regarded  his  listener.  Her 
eyes  were  dark,  and  heavenly,  marvelously  blue 
under  her  straight  brows. 

"You  have  known  many  men,  Contessa,"  he 
said,  "you  know  life  as  every  worldly  woman 
knows  it,  and  you  will  probably  not  believe  me 
when  I  tell  you  that  although  I  was  twenty-five 
years  old,  I  had  never  looked  upon  a  woman  to 
desire  her.  My  heart  and  my  mind  were  as  clear 
as  glass  and  as  unmarred.  I  can  not  explain  it 
except  that  I  was  very  religious,  and  that  Father 
Anselmo  was  a  saint,  "that  I  was  an  out-of-door 
sportsman,  a  hunter  as  my  ancestors  were  hunt 
ers.  Coming  out  of  the  convent  yard  that  eve 
ning,  I  saw  a  young  girl  carrying  a  line  of 
empty  bottles  tied  around  her  neck  by  a  leather 
thong.  She  began  to  go  down  the  hill  warily, 
144. 


THE    HEART    OF    A    HERMIT 

carefully ;  her  load  was  heavy,  and  I  followed." 

Maria's  companion  paused,  pulled  out  a  bit  of 
lighted  wood  from  the  fire  and  put  the  flame  to 
his  cigarette. 

"I  watched  her  at  first  with  indifference,  and 
when  her  burden  of  bottles  seemed  too  heavy  for 
her,  I  overtook  her  and  made  her  let  me  carry 
them  down  the  hill.     She  was  an  ordinary  type 
of  peasant,  with  a  milk-white  throat.     I  don't 
know  really  how  she  looked  except  that  she  had 
red  hair.    I  lingered  on  at  Pieve."    Maria  found 
him  very  tall  to  look  up  at  as  he  stood  by  her 
:hair.  "I  shall  not  tell  you  any  further  the  story 
)f  my  foolish,  my  unhappy  life.    I  thought  her 
2autiful  then.     She  was  a  woman,  and  I  must 
ive  been  a  very  ardent  and  ridiculous  young 
lan.     At  the  Inn  of  the  Seven  Doves  in  those 
days  one  lived  about  as  one  lives  now.     Elena 
jave  me  macaroni  and  soup,  nice  sour  bread  and 
)ur  wine,   and   I    read   political   economy   up- 
lirs."      He   paused.      "When   I    got   back  to 
lome  I  was  just  throwing  the  last  things  into 
145 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

my  boxes  preparatory  to  starting  for  Paris  and 
my  post,  when  word  was  brought  me  that  Father 
Anselmo  was  dying  and  wanted  to  sec  me  again. 
I  had  been  away  several  months,  and  when  I  re 
turned" — he  smote  the  chimneypiece  with  his 
hand — "just  here  in  this  room,  Madame,  old 
Elena  told  me  that  Giulia's  father  had  turned  her 
out  that  afternoon,  and  no  one  knew  where  she 
was.  As  it  developed,  she  had  gone  by  the  dili 
gence  to  San  Sepolcro;  from  there  she  intended 
walking  to  Rome.  Not  to  find  me,  she  was  too 
proud  for  that,  but  to  begin  a  life  of  ill-fame,  as 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do." 

He  looked  down  at  Maria.  "I  married  her. 
It  killed  my  mother,  I  think:  she  never  saw 
Giulia.  My  father  disinherited  me,  but  the  gov 
ernment  made  me  mayor,  and  I  had  learned  a  lit 
tle  medicine.  So  I  became  a  country  doctor — 
and  I  have  Armando  and  Lilli." 


CHAPTER  XV 

BELLA  GANDARA'S  WISH 

FOR  fourteen  days  she  docilely  accepted  the 
hospitality  of  the  inn,  eating  the  best 
Elena  could  prepare,  nearly  starving  and  obey 
ing  implicitly  her  impetuous  magnetic  friend. 
Delia  Gandara  ruthlessly  employed  her.  He 
came  every  morning  early  and  set  her  tasks, 
which  she  performed  with  patience  and  sweet 
ness.  He  brought  her  things  to  sew  and  she 
worked  at  them  as  though  she  were  making  her 
bread  by  her  labor.  He  took  her  to  see  his  sick 
people  and  they  made  their  journeys  on  foot.  He 
seemed  to  have  no  thought  of  fatigue  for  himself 
or  for  her,  and  she  liked  his  rude  courage.  He 
told  her  that  he  needed  her  help  with  Giovanni 
Pullelli,  and  she  had  gone  with  him  daily  on  that 
visit.  She  rolled  bandages.  "Binding  wounds" — 
147 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

she  smiled — "ray  mission  has  begun."  But  al 
though  she  bound  Giovanni  well  and  skilfully, 
she  did  not  bind  his  body  so  surely  as  she  bound 
the  heart  of  the  man  whose  hands  touched  hers  as 
they  worked  together,  whose  eyes  met  hers  and 
lingered  in  gazing. 

Giovanni  was  as  submissive  and  silent  and 
grateful  as  a  hurt  animal.  His  patient  eyes 
turned  first  to  Delia  Gandara,  then  to  the  sig- 
nora.  Neither  his  wife  from  her  couch,  nor  the 
shepherdess,  nor  the  old  mother  had  explained  to 
the  invalid  who  Maria  was. 

"Chi  e?"  he  asked  Delia  Gandara.  His  fever 
had  gone  down  and  he  pointed  with  one  limp  fin 
ger  directly  at  Maria. 

She  had  worn  no  hat  and  borrowed  a  cape 
from  Elena;  around 'her  throat  folded  a  low 
white  collar,  and  her  throat  bore  the  exposure 
well  and  rose  straight,  slender.  Her  dress  was  of 
a  bright  blue,  with  her  sleeves  to  the  elbow,  leav 
ing  her  bare  forearms  free.  She  had  never  used 
her  capable  white  hands  so  well  before. 
148 


DELLA    GANDARA'S    WISH 

"Ohe  e?"  Giovanni  pointed  at  her. 

Delia  Gandara  stood  behind  Maria.  He  had 
finished  giving  Giovanni  his  medicine  and  drew 
his  hand  from  behind  his  head.  Before  Delia 
Gandara  could  answer,  Maria  said: 

"A  pilgrim,  Giovanni,  I  am  only  a  pilgrim." 

His  earnest  gaze  riveted  on  her. 

"Slate  benedetta"  he  murmured  hesitatingly, 
then  whispered:  "Benedlteml,  beneditemi." 

Maria  rose,  smiling  and  nodding.  "You  are 
better,  Giovanni,  be  good  and  tranquil." 

But  she  was  not  thinking  of  Giovanni.  This 
afternoon,  all  through  their  mutual  work  at  the 
peasant's  side,  Gandara's  sleeve  that  touched  her 
arm,  his  hands  that  touched  hers,  even  his  voice 
seemed  to  touch  her  and  caress  her.  Every  direc 
tion  he  gave  had  another  meaning  from  his  prac 
tical  words.  She  understood  sensitively  and  she 
answered  without  speech  as  she  held  the  rolled 
linen,  washed  the  sponges,  bending  over  Gio 
vanni. 

"Love  me,  love  me,"  he  seemed  to  say,  "how 
149 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

heavenly  it  is  to  work  by  your  side !  How  soft 
your  hands  are,  how  quick !  Love  me!" 

Now,  standing  behind  her,  he  said  aloud : 

"Giovanni,  you  must  thank  the  eccellenza :  she 
has  a  most  charitable  soul.  She  has  magical 
hands." 

"Bless  me,  bless  me,"  Giovanni  murmured,  and 
the  little  shepherd  girl  plucked  at  her  dress.  The 
old  mother,  who  had  been  bending  over  the  pot  of 
broth  in  the  embers,  at  Giovanni's  cry  of  "Mam 
ma,  mamma,"  hobbled  toward  his  mattress. 
Giovanni,  whose  solemn  gaze  never  quitted 
Maria,  said  something  to  the  old  woman.  The 
little  shepherdess  and  the  grandmother  whis 
pered  together,  the  child  stared  at  Maria.  She 
wiped  her  hands  on  the  clean  towel  that  she  had 
fetched  from  the  Inn  of  the  Seven  Doves. 

"Benediteci,  benediteci"  demanded  the  old 
woman  and  the  child  together. 

Maria  laughed  cheerfully. 

"Siete  beneditti  tutti!" 

The  old  woman  mumbled,  blinking  at  the  vis 
it  50 


BELLA    GANDARA'S    WISH 

itor,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  as  did  the 
little  shepherdess. 

Outside,  Maria  and  Delia  Gandara  walked 
along  together.  She  was  afraid  now  to  hear  him 
speak  and  afraid  of  the  words  that  he  had  not 
said.  Her -heart  beat  furiously,  her  lips  trem 
bled.  He  was  looking  at  her  earnestly.  Just 
without  Pieve,  at  the  stone  doorway,  he  broke  the 
silence. 

"Do  you  know  what  they  thought,  Contessa  ?" 

"They?" 

"Giovanni  and  the  grandmother.  Do  you 
realize  ?" 

"No,  no,"  she  replied  vaguely,  "and  I  do  not 
care." 

"They  think  that  you  are  the  Madonna." 

"Ah !"  she  cried,  hurt  and  disillusioned.  "You 
are  always  mocking  me,  always.  Why  do  you 
make  sport  of  me  so  cruelly?" 

He  cried: 

"7  make  sport  of  you !" 

They  had  come  up  to  the  gateway  where  she 
151 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

had  seen  him  first.  Pieve  lay  before  them :  back 
of  them  the  plain  flowed  to  the  Apennines. 

"How  could  one  make  sport  of  you?  It  is 
curious,  but  I  don't  know  your  name,  Contessa. 
Think  of  it,  I  don't  know  your  baptismal  name, 
and  there  is  only  one  name  which  should  be 
yours,  and  I  do  not  want  you  to  have  that  name." 

"Why  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Of  course  you  know  the  name — Maria.  I 
mean  Maria." 

"Why  don't  you  want  me  to  have  it  ?  What  a 
curious  idea !  Why  should  I  not  bear  the  most 
common  name  in  Italy  ?" 

He  said  tensely: 

"Because  I  want  you  to  be  sacred  to  me  alone." 

She  tried  to  answer  him  lightly.  From  above 
the  vesper  bells  of  Saht'  Angelo  rang  down  upon 
them. 

"How  selfish !  How  could  I  be  sacred  to  one 
alone?" 

"If  you  are  sacred  to  me  as  I  mean,"  he  an- 
152 


BELLA    GANDARA'S    WISH 

swered,  "these  people  would  not  call  on  you  to 
bless  them.  I  hope  you  do  not  bear  that  name." 

Her  pulses  rang  like  bells.  She  wished  to  deny 
her  name.  (She  had  said  to  Father  Faversham, 
"I  am  not  one  of  those  sacred  women.") 

Now  the  sound  of  loud  voices  reached  them, 
harsher  bells  came  tinkling,  the  bells  on  the 
necks  of  the  cattle,  and  the  sheep  bells  as  the 
flocks  trooped  into  Pieve  at  nightfall,  but  just 
before  the  homing  herds,  running  hand  in  hand 
together  through  the  gateway,  came  two  chil 
dren,  their  little  heads  well  up — Lilli  and  Ar 
mando.  They  were  panting  hard,  they  ran  ar 
dently.  Their  little  feet  struck  bravely  on  the 
hard  white  road,  like  lambs'  feet. 

"Ecco,  ecco"  she  could  hear  Armando  breath 
lessly  calling.  She  bent  her  head  a  little : 

"My  name  is  Maria.  My  name  is  nevertheless 
Maria!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  GIFT  OF  A  SOUL 

MARIA  might  go  no  farther  than  the 
courtyard  of  Sant'  Angclo.  Paved  with 
flat  stones,  beautifully  clean,  the  court  was  sur 
rounded  by  a  high  white  wall,  against  which  the 
monks  had  trained  their  vines. 

To  the  lay  brother  who  let  them  in  and  who 
gave  Delia  Gandara  the  key,  he  said  a  few  words 
of  greeting;  and  as  the  porter  at  San  Marcello 
had  done,  the  priest  turned  and  left  them  alone. 
Above  the  wall  the  sky,  gray  as  steel,  stretched 
to  the  peaks.  It  was  "very  cold. 

"Why  did  you  bring  me  here  ?" 

These  were  the  first  words  she  had  said  to  him 

since  well  down  the  hill  slope,  which  they  had 

mounted   slowly,   and  as  they   had   paused   for 

breath  he  had  taken  her  in  his  arms.     She  had 

154 


THE    GIFT   OF   A   SOUL 

repulsed  him  and  they  had  stood  facing,  looking 
like  enemies  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"Because,  mia  adorata,  I  want  you  to  see  a 
place  I  love.  When  a  man  has  a  temple  in  his 
heart,  he  brings  all  the  light  and  flowers  that  he 
can  find  or  steal  to  it;  and  I  want  to  light  every 
corner  of  my  life  and  every  memory  with  you." 

He  spoke  with  the  assurance  of  a  happy  man 
who  denies  himself  nothing,  who  has  few  desires, 
and  who  makes  of  them  his  destiny. 

"It  is  melancholy  here,"  Maria  spoke  as 
though  she  had  not  heard  his  outburst :  "and  we 
are  not  welcome.  I  am  sure  a  woman,  visitor  is 
not  welcome  within  these  walls." 

"Come,"  he  said  in  his  curt  fashion  of  com 
manding  her,  "they  have  a  vineyard  and  a  bel 
fry.  I  want  you  to  see  them.  Come." 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  a  small  door  in 
the  wall,  pushed  it  in  and  went  through.  Be 
hind  him,  down  the  hill  slope  stretched  the  vine 
yard  on  whose  terraces  was  the  unclad  purity  of 
a  belated  spring.  The  Tiber  valley  spread  be- 
155 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

neath  them  to  the  Apennines  like  a  sinuous  thing, 
and  under  the  sunless  day  the  river  wound  to 
ward  Savignono  where  the  island  town  came  jut 
ting  out  into  the  stream.  From  the  monastery 
walls  rose  the  gray  specter  of  a  medieval  church. 
It  dominated  the  valley  and  lifted  its  belfry 
where  the  bats  and  owls  gathered,  and  like  an  eye 
brooding  on  danger  and  ruin,  the  open  belfry 
stared  toward  the  Apennines  whose  peaks  alone 
had  known  no  transformation  since  the  Saracens 
cut  their  passes  and  went  out  for  ever  from  Tus 
cany. 

Delia  Gandara  said : 

"The  first  monks  who  followed  after  the  in 
vasion  built  Sant'  Angelo  and  hung  the  bell  here. 
You  have  heard  its  matins  and  vespers  at  Pieve? 
Come." 

She  followed  him  and  they  skirted  the  monas 
tery  wall.  The  earth  was  so  perfumed  and  fra 
grant  that  it  seemed  to  Maria  an  incense  offered 
her  by  the  spring.  She  saw  the  high  windows  of 
the  monastery,  narrow,  rigid,  meager  apertures. 
156 


THE    GIFT   OF   A    SOUL 

Delia  Gandara  turned  the  key,  pushed  in  the 
old  door  of  the  church,  crossed  the  threshold, 
and  repeated  more  gently :  "Come." 

Maria  glanced  over  her  shoulder  at  the  mellow 
Tuscan  country  and  followed  her  companion  into 
the  perfumed  little  sanctuary,  black  as  ancient 
rock.  The  supports  were  of  blackened  wood,  and 
at  the  left  over  a  Virgin  altar,  burned  a  cluster 
of  spirit-like  candles  whose  lights  and  slender 
forms  shone  like  angels  in  the  gloom. 

"It  is  Holy  Thursday,"  murmured  the  contes- 
sa.  "I  didn't  remember  it,  did  you  ?" 

On  the  altar  lay  a  mass  of  fruit  blossoms,  the 
only  flowers  of  the  rugged  countryside. 

Delia  Gandara  said: 

"I  have  forgotten  every  feast  and  every  sacra 
ment  but  you." 

He  did  not  appear  to  expect  her  to  reply,  but 
he  led  her  abruptly  to  the  dark  narrow  staircase. 

"The  steps  are  numberless,  and  hard  to  climb, 
but  at  the  top  there  is  the  bell,  Contessa.  Come." 

Hypnotized,  fascinated,  she  followed  him,  and 
157 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

climbed  the  hundred  steps  without  flagging,  cer 
tain,  should  she  stop,  that  he  would  turn  and 
carry  her  in  his  arms.  The  gray  light  met  them 
from  the  top,  and  they  stood  in  the  belfry  where 
the  arched  windows  opened  to  the  sky.  They  saw 
Pieve  lie  below  them  like  a  gray  nest  in  a  gray 
field,  and  the  Tiber  scarring  the  valley.  A  mist 
filled  the  country  which  toward  the  Apennines 
deepened  to  violet,  from  whose  royal  color  they 
rose  to  the  snows. 

The  belfry  space  was  small,  the  boards  were 
rotten  under  their  feet,  faced  here  and  there  with 
new  wood.  Above  them  hung  the  bronze  bell,  not 
very  large  but  very  ancient,  the  moss  of  centuries 
and  mold  around  its  rim,  and  close  to  the  apex 
housed  a  bat  which  their  coming  did  not  seem  to 
disturb. 

"A  brother  to  dragons,  a  companion  to  owls," 
Delia  Gandara  murmured.  "I  come  here  alone 
time  and  again,  Madonna.  I  lean  from  this  win 
dow  and  I  people  the  valley  and  the  mountains 
with  pictures  of  what  I  might  have  been.  And 
158 


THE    GIFT    OF    A    SOUL 

to-day  for  the  first  time  I  see  how  foolish  these 
visions  are,  and  how  foolish  my  regrets  as  well. 
I  have  often  wanted  to  die :  now  I  thank  Heaven 
that  I  have  lived  until  this  year.  Does  it  give 
you  vertigo?  Does  it  frighten  you?" 

"No."     - 

Her  heart  was  beating  fast,  but  not  from  the 
effort  of  mounting  the  hundred  steps  that 
brought  her  to  this  eery  and  forgotten  place.  It 
seemed  that  she  had  brought  with  her  all  of  her 
self,  every  desire  and  need  and  aspiration,  and  as 
completely  as  if  she  had  been  disembodied  and 
become  the  quintessence  of  woman,  she  could 
have  offered  Delia  Gandara  her  soul  in  her  hands, 
He  and  she  seemed  cut  off  from  all  the  world, 
as  though  they  were  in  a  new  planet  and  alone 
upon  it. 

She  thought  of  the  belfry  at  San  Marcello. 

"Tell  me  of  the  bell.  Why  did  you  bring  me 
to  see  it?" 

He  answered  shortly  • 

"Because  it  is  without  blemish — one  of  the 
159 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

most  perfect  bells  in  the  world.  It  was  cast  with 
out  a  flaw,  it  rings  like  honey.  Every  note  is  as 
pure  as  heaven.  I  have  leaned  here  and  heard  it 
ring  for  matins  until  my  very  soul  seemed  shaken 
out  of  me.  But  it  was  not  only  to  see  a  perfect 
bell  that  I  brought  you  here,  anima  mia!" 

He  took  her  hands.  For  a  second  in  which  her 
life  rounded  and  completed,  she  returned  his  look, 
then,  as  she  felt  him  draw  her,  the  words  of 
Father  Faversham  by  the  side  of  the  broken  bell 
came  to  her,  and  all  the  force  with  which  she  had 
been  fortifying  herself  came  as  well. 

"I  can  be  nothing  to  you,"  she  murmured,  and 
held  him  back.  "Nothing!  I  do  not  want  to 
make  you  suffer.  I  am  sorry  that  I  came  to 
Pieve,  sorry  that  I  stayed.  You  must  let  me  go." 

Delia  Gandara  laughed,  and  so  happily  that 
she  looked  at  him,  surprised.  He  dropped  her 
hands  and  cried : 

"Nothing  to  me !  But  you  are  my  existence, 
and  will  be  for  ever.  I  am  going  to  have  a  para 
dise." 

160 


THE    GIFT    OF    A    SOUL 

In  spite  of  herself  she  exclaimed : 

"And  I  ?    What  should  I  have  ?" 

"Ah !"  he  cried,  "let  me  show  you." 

He  took  her  again  in  his  arms,  and  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

"I  implore  you,"  she  murmured,  "I  implore 
you!" 

She  felt  his  kisses  fall  upon  her  neck,  on  her 
hair  close  to  the  brave  red  rose,  but  she  kept  her 
hands  clasped  against  her  face.  "Maria,"  she 
prayed,  "Mother  of  all  holy  desires !"  And  just 
then  the  bell  tolled  and  the  shock  of  it  was  sud 
den,  standing  as  they  were  directly  under  it.  She 
pushed  him  from  her.  The  tongue  touched  the 
concave  side  and  sang.  It  struck  again  and 
gold  fell  from  its  resonance.  It  was  the  Angelus. 
Without  flaw  or  blemish  the  bronze  sent  out  a 
tone  as  pure  as  heaven. 

Maria  stumbled  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and 
made  her  way  down,  eagerly,  trembling.  The 
stair  was  too  narrow  for  Delia  Gandara  to  sup 
port  her.  Half-way  down  in  the  pitch  dark,  the 
161 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

bell  singing  like  an  angel  above  her  head,  she 
nearly  lost  her  footing. 

"If  he  touches  me,"  she  thought,  "if  he 
touches  me !"  In  the  darkness  which  was  a  cloak 
for  them  she  could  feel  his  hand  steal  along  the 
wall,  and  stopped,  panting  like  a  caged  creature : 

She  spoke  with  effort.  "Will  you  go  before 
me?  Will  you?" 

On  the  narrow  stairs  where  she  clung  like  a 
half -dead  woman,  he  passed  her,  hardly  brushing 
her,  and  in  his  short  imperative  tone  comr 
manded : 

"Put  your  hand  on  my  shoulder,  so.     Come." 

They  went  slowly  down,  while  from  the  lower 
door  the  pale  light  sent  up  its  illumination.  In 
the  church  below  they  were  celebrating  vespers 
and  the  monks  chanted  behind  the  lattices. 

Delia  Gandara  and  Maria  Sant'  Alcione  passed 
together  through  the  church  out  into  the  eve 
ning,  and  they  were  well  down  the  mountainside 
before  the  bell  ceased  to  ring. 


S 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  TIBER'S  FIRST  LOVE 

IE 

HE  had  put  on  her  riding-habit, — a  short 
divided  skirt  and  boots  of  brown  leather,  a 
little  tricorne  hat  and  a  short  coat.  By  her  side 
was  a  small  dressing-bag.  Delia  Gandara,  at  the 
foot  of  the  inn  stairs,  laid  his  hand  on  the  railing 
and  stood  looking  up  to  her.  His  eyes  at  once 
had  a  flame  that  warmed  and  illumined.  Every 
time  she  met  his  eyes  a  torch  lighted  within  her. 
His  words  were  practical. 

"You  must  take  an  umbrella.     It  rains  and 
snows  every  few  minutes  in  the  mountains." 

She  laughed  gaily : 

"I  can't  fancy  you  with  an  umbrella,  Mar- 
chese,  under  any  circumstances.  You  are  too 
picturesque  a  figure.  I  can  imagine  you  with  a 
lance  or  a  sword  but  not  with  an  umbrella.  As 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  don't  own  one." 
163 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"What  a  ridiculous  excursion !"  he  exclaimed, 
almost  with  irritation.  "No  one  but  a  modern 
woman  would  think  of  such  a  thing  as  coming  to 
this  mountain  country  in  the  winter  and  climbing 
to  the  snows." 

In  front  of  the  door  a  little  basket  carriage 
waited,  drawn  by  a  rugged  horse  who  shook 
countless  bells  whenever  he  stirred. 

Her  companion  helped  her  in,  took  his  seat  by 
her  side;  not  even  the  old  innkeeper  saw  them 
start  away.  It  was  only  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

The  Marchese  della  Gandara  had  not  been  able 
to  restrain  this  wayward  woman.  She  was  going 
to  Le  Baize.  He  had  only  succeeded  in  getting 
her  permission  to  allow  him  to  arrange  her  pil 
grimage.  He  was  1o  drive  her  to  where  she 
should  take  her  mule  and  find  the  guide  whom  he 
had  secured  to  penetrate  with  her  the  path 
through  the  Apennines. 

The  horse  was  fat  and  slow  and  the  low  phaeton 
anything  but  a  vehicle  of  luxury.     The  Italian, 
164 


THE    TIBER'S    FIRST    LOVE 

the  reins  coiled  in  one  hand,  waved  to  the  Tiber 
valley  and  talked  to  the  traveler  about  the  coum 
try. 

"It  is  as  rich  as  gold,  this  Tuscany.  Every 
handful  of  the  soil  is  mellow  with  memory.  Your 
race  and  your  country  are  so  young,  Madame.  I 
have  an  idea  that  the  United  States  is  like  a 
green  apple.  You  will  find  it  hard  and  crisp  to 
cut."  He  pointed  to  the  golden  valley,  over 
whose  bed  the  Tiber  spread  itself,  blue  as  indigo. 
"Does  it  not  seem  that  this  picture  would  crum 
ble  if  you  should  touch  it  rudely?  These  ancient 
huts,  the  silvery  little  towns — jewels  set  so  long 
in  their  antique  forms.  Are  they  not  charm 
ing?" 

She  followed  the  gesture  of  his  shapely  hand. 
He  turned  suddenly  and  lifted  her  chin,  bringing 
her  face  toward  him. 

"I  speak  of  it  with  delight,"  he  murmured, 
"because  you  are  with  me.     You  have  made  it 
seem  beautiful  to  me.  Until  you  came  I  cursed 
tivery  grain  of  the  dust  of  my  exile." 
165 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

There  was  not  a  quiver  of  Maria's  eyelids  or 
of  her  mouth.  The  serene  blue  of  her  eyes,  whose 
color  suggested  the  Madonna,  remained  untrou 
bled.  She  looked  at  him  tranquilly.  He  sighed 
and  dropped  his  hand. 

She  returned  to  what  he  had  said  and,  as  he 
thought,  without  emotion  in  her  voice. 

"You  think  of  us  as  crude,  Marchese.  Per 
haps  we  are.  I  think  we  are  wonderfully  tender, 
however,  if  you  knew  us,  and  our  power  of  adap 
tability  and  our  assimilation  amount  to  genius. 
No  one,  for  instance,  ever  takes  me  for  anything 
but  an  Italian.  You  didn't  believe  me  when  I 
said  I  was  an  American." 

He  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"Car a  Contessa,"  he  murmured,  "you  are  the 
rich  ripe  fruit,  the  very  atmosphere  of  Eden.  I 
don't  know  whether  it  is  Italy  that  has  sunned 
you  to  what  you  are.  Go  to  your  shrine  in  Le 
Baize.  I  am  glad  you  are  going.  You  will  come 
back  or  I  shall  fetch  you.  You  are  mine  by  every 
beat  of  your  heart,  every  voice  of  your  nature." 
166 


THE    TIBER'S    FIRST    LOVE 

After  a  second  she  said : 

"On  the  contrary  you  must  promise  me  that 
you  will  not  come  to  Le  Baize." 

"I  shall  certainly  come  if  you  stay  beyond 
three  days.  I  give  you  no  longer.  It  took  only 
six  days  to  make  the  world.  It  should  not  take 
longer  than  three  days  for  a  woman  to  make  up 
her  mind.  You  are  going  to  make  up  your  mind, 
on  what  subject  I  do  not  know,  but  I  will  relin 
quish  you  to  your  feminine  and  metaphysical 
problems.  Then  I  will  come  to  you." 

They  drove  along  in  silence  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  he  said: 

"I  did  not  seek  you.  I  did  not  know  that  you 
were  coming.  Before  you  came  I  had  almost 
made  up  my  mind  to  take  a  step  which  has  ap 
pealed  to  me  for  several  years.  I  meant  to  enter 
the  monastery  of  Sam?  Angelo.  I  did  think  so 
until  we  went  to  the  belfry.  I  had  always 
thought  that  I  should  say  my  paternosters  from 
those  walls." 

She  glanced  at  him.     What  he  said  was  un- 
167 


sympathetic  to  her.  She  could  not  fancy  him  a 
monk.  She  said  aloud : 

"Promise  me  that  you  will  not  go  to  Le  Baize." 

"I  can  not  promise  you  a  lie." 

"There  must  be  another  way  out  of  Le  Baize. 
I  shall  go  to  Rimini." 

"I  will  come  after  you  even  if  you  bore  a 
hole  to  China  and  go  through  the  very  heart  of 
the  earth !" 

The  little  horse,  rejoicing  in  a  hilly  decline, 
trotted  bravely,  and  to  the  right  Savignono  on 
its  island,  bloomed  like  a  brown  flower  in  the 
stream.  He  drew  the  horse  up  to  the  side  of  the 
road. 

"Let  us  go  in  and  see  the  Delia  Robbia,  Ma 
dame.  It  is  a  Virgin  with  a  stainless  brow  and 
eyes  like  a  prayer.  "-We  say  'Pray  for  us',  and 
this  Virgin's  are  the  only  lips  I  ever  saw  that  an 
swered  'I  pray  for  you.'  She  has  a  child  on  her 
breast.  I  think  it  is  the  purest  thing  I  ever  saw 
in  art.  Come." 

He  seemed  to  Maria  to  be  always  saying  that 
168 


THE    TIBER'S    FIRST    LOVE 

word  to  her,  short  and  rapid:  "Come,  come." 
She  now  knew  what  the  appeal  was  that  she  saw 
on  his  face  in  Naples.  "Come"  was  written  in 
his  eyes.  He  had  said  it  to  her  silently  when  she 
saw  him  standing  under  the  arch  with  poor  Gio 
vanni  Pullelli,  whom,  twenty-five  minutes  later, 
the  bull  had  gored ;  and  after  that  he  had  said  it 
constantly  and  she  had  gone  with  him  to  the  poor 
sick  man  in  the  hovel.  She  had  gone  to  Sant* 
Angelo,  up  the  dangerous  hill,  where  in  the  vine 
yards  his  lips  and  eyes,  his  voice  and  arms  had 
said  "Come",  and  she  had  resisted  him.  She  had 
followed  him  up  the  stairs  into  the  tower  under 
the  divine  bell,  where  his  heart  and  body  called 
"Come,  beloved",  and  she  had  had  the  strength 
to  go  from  him.  Every  time  now  and  hereafter 
Maria  knew  that  she  must  be  deaf  to  the  beauti 
ful,  appealing,  commanding  voice  in  answer  to 
which  all  her  soul  and  body  responded.  She 
would  not  go  with  him  into  that  adorable  little 
town  on  its  island,  across  the  tiny  bridge  to  the 
church.  They  were  better  here  in  the  open. 
169 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Delia  Gandara  sprang  out  of  the  carriage  and 
blanketed  the  pony. 

"Come,"  he  repeated,  and  Maria  gave  him  her 
hand  and  followed  him  down  the  hill  to  the  bridge 
which  married  Savignono  to  the  shore.  The 
bridge  was  narrow  as  a  ribbon.  They  had  to 
wait  for  a  donkey  and  his  rider  to  amble  over  it. 
From  the  island  came  the  pungent  sharp  smells 
of  a  populous  Italian  town:  its  fire,  its  smoke, 
and  its  humming  noise.  Maria  walked  over  the 
little  bridge  that  threw  a  heavy  girdle  across  the 
river,  green  as  a  dragon-fly,  and  roundabout 
Savignono  the  Tiber  spread  like  an  emerald  and 
clear  as  glass.  Close  to  the  church  there  were 
beggars,  there  were  children  and  asses,  and  the 
city  hummed  like  a  hive. 

Once  more  they  crossed  the  threshold  of  a 
medieval  church. 

Delia  Gandara  put  his  hand  on  Maria's  arm. 

"To  the  right,  in  that  little  chapel,  hangs  the 
blue  and  white  Madonna." 

Over  the  altar  set  in  the  stone  of  the  wall  was 
170 


THE    TIBER'S    FIRST    LOVE 

one  of  the  masterpieces  of  ceramic  art.  The  re 
lief  had  the  whiteness  of  milk  and  the  beauty  of  a 
lily.  Around  the  frame  the  rich  fruits  in  yellow 
and  blue  terra-cotta  hung  as  though  ripe  to  fall. 

On  the  ascetic  beauty  of  divine  motherhood 
Maria's  eyes  did  not  linger.  It  was  the  child 
against  the  Virgin's  breast  that  she  saw.  But 
Delia  Gandara  looked  at  the  Virgin  and  at  Maria 
Sant'  Alcione. 

"Dio,  what  a  marvelous  likeness !" 

Maria  did  not  stir.  Through  the  long  narrow 
window  above  the  altar  amber  light  fell  on  the 
white  Madonna,  on  the  head  of  the  Bambino  and 
on  the  luscious  frame. 

"Come,"  he  repeated,  and  she  followed  him  as 
in  a  dream,  and  once  outside  said  to  him : 

"I  have  never  seen  anything  so  lovely,  never ! 
It  should  be  in  Rome." 

"It  is  exactly  like  you,  Madame,"  he  answered 
almost  angrily,  "you  might  have  been  the 
model." 

"You  seem  to  resent  it,"  she  smiled  slightly. 
171 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"If  it  had  been  a  Magdalen,  you  would  have  pre 
ferred  the  resemblance." 

And  he  repeated  somberly : 

"I  want  you  to  be  sacred  to  me  alone." 

On  either  side  of  them  the  mountains  rose  in 
classic  form,  tier  upon  tier,  soft  as  velvet.  In  a 
profound  gorge  the  Tiber  cut  a  stormy  course, 
rushing  like  an  impetuous  lover. 

"See!"  Delia  Gandara  pointed  with  his  whip. 
"See  how  the  river  encircles  Savignono.  See  how 
it  embraces  its  first  love." 

Around  the  island  the  river  spread  two  beauti 
ful  arms  encircling  the  city,  then  tore  foaming 
on  to  new  towns  and  to  Rome. 

"Rome,"  said  Delia  Gandara,  "is  the  lawful 
spouse,  the  importajit,  triumphant,  wedded 
woman  ;  but  Savignono — just  see  the  brown  wild 
beauty  of  that  little  town — she  is  the  mistress." 

They  had  slowly  climbed  the  hill  and  Delia 

Gandara  stopped  once  more  and  they  both  looked 

back.     The  valley  was  full  of  the  cry  and  the 

song  of  the  Tiber.     Over  the  white  stones  the 

172 


THE    TIBER'S    FIRST    LOVE 

water  laughed  in  ecstasy  and  grew  profound  in 
violet  pools  and  flowed  in  purple  shadows,  and 
up-stream  there  was  a  white  mane  of  foam  like  a 
distant  hand  that  signaled. 

"The  Tiber  will  have  many  loves  before  it 
reaches  Rome,  but  this  is  the  only  town  that  it 
embraces  with  both  arms.  Up  in  the  cold  where 
you  are  going,  think  of  Savignono  and  its  happy 
fate."  He  lowered  his  voice.  "And  think  of  me, 
innamorata  mia,  think  of  me." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

UP  TOWARD  THE  SNOWS 

THE  road  had  been  deserted  but  now  was 
peopled  by  a  group  of  contadini  going 
down  to  Pieve.  From  the  huts  in  the  valley  here 
where  they  lay  like  dry  leaves  upon  a  barren 
floor,  the  peasants  began  to  journey  up  the 
high  road  to  the  little  village  eight  miles  away. 
Above  their  heads  now  and  then  an  eagle  circled, 
cried  out  and  soared,  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
blue,  or  lost  behind  a  sparkling  peak.  High,  un 
welcoming,  Monte  Fumaiolo  rose  in  the  center  of 
the  hills,  lily-like  among  the  green  mountains, 
and  there  lay  Le  Baize.  There  was  a  miraculous 
sweetness  and  freshness  in  the  air.  It  grew 
colder. 

"No  wonder  the  women  and  the  men  are  hand- 
174 


UP    TOWARD    THE    SNOWS 

some  here,"  Maria  said,  "the  air,  the  light,  and 
the  atmosphere  are  an  envelope  of  beauty." 

"Therese,"  Delia  Gandara  replied,  nodding, 
"was  the  prettiest  creature,  Contessa,  whom  one 
could  wish  to  meet  on  a  spring  day  in  a  heather 
field  like  this  one."  He  lifted  his  hand  and  she 
followed  his  glance  to  the  hills.  Tier  upon  tier, 
russet  hillocks  stained  with  wild  heather,  red  as 
blood,  gorse  as  pale  as  the  daffodils,  as  the  moun 
tains  grew  more  rugged,  more  sharp  and  forbid 
ding,  as  the  road  climbed  up,  up  into  the  Apen 
nines. 

"There,  Contessa,  on  that  hill,  that  globe-like 
little  mountain,  Therese  kept  her  goats.  Below 
in  the  valley  which  you  can  not  see  lived  her  peo 
ple  in  a  hut  as  black  as  time  and  as  noble. 
Time,"  Delia  Gandara  said,  "is  very  noble.  It 
has  forgiven  and  forgotten  so  many  things. 
Every  day  from  the  time  she  was  seven  years  old, 
Therese  came  out  barefoot  in  the  summer-time, 
in  sabots  in  the  winter,  in  her  brown  cloak  and 
her  red  skirt;  she  knitted  as  she  watched  her 
175 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

goats.  She  had  limbs  like  ivory,  Contessa,  arms 
and  breast  and  feet  and  neck  like  ivory,  and  a 
face  prettier  than  nature  should  give  to  those 
who  have  no  other  laws  or  protection  than  na 
ture's.  I  used  to  come  up  here  to  help  the  hill 
people,  and  I  often  heard  her  sing  in  the  heather, 
often  saw  her  standing  there  on  a  cold  winter 
afternoon,  a  terra-cotta  brazier  in  her  hands  and 
her  goats  around  her  knees.  She  looked  like  a 
fair  child."  Delia  Gandara  interrupted  himself 
to  ask:  "Do  you  care  for  story-telling,  Con 
tessa?" 

He  spoke  to  her  profile  for  she  refrained  from 
meeting  his  eyes.  Charmed  by  his  voice  and  his 
subject,  in  which  every  modulation,  even  in  the 
most  impersonal  words,  were  a  direct  caress,  she 
answered : 

"I  like  to  hear  you  talk  of  Tuscany.  I  like  to 
hear  you  speak,  Delia  Gandara." 

"Fortune-tellers,"  he  replied,  "break  off  in  the 
middle  of  their  telling  to  demand  encouragement. 
You  can  not  see  the  place,"  he  waved  to  the  left, 
176 


UP    TOWARD    THE    SNOWS 

"where  Therese's  patron  and  landlord  lived.  He 
was  the  Marchese  Fasteti  from  Rimini.  He  owns 
all  the  land  thereabout.  He  came  twice  a  year  to 
this  country-seat  and  Therese  loved  him.  He 
took  her  from  her  field  and  her  goats.  He  made 
a  princess  of  her  for  a  time,  Madame,  and  then 
he  came  no  more.  She  went  back  to  her  people 
in  the  hut,  and  last  spring,  as  I  passed  by  one 
day,  her  brothers  came  running  down  the  road  to 
me  to  say  that  no  one  could  find  Therese  and  that 
the  goats  were  wandering  without  a  herd  on  the 
mountainside.  I  left  my  horse  tied  to  a  birch 
and  went  back  with  them  to  the  hills,  and  among 
the  others  I  saw  a  little  kid  with  a  scarlet  ribbon 
round  his  neck.  He  ran  and  his  little  bell  tinkled 
as  loud  as  his  bleating.  Therese  had  tied  around 
the  kid's  neck  a  silk  garter  with  a  jewel  in  the 
clasp,  one  of  the  gifts  Fasteti  had  given  her 
when  she  was  a  princess.  You  see  how  sheer  and 
steep  the  rock  runs  up,  Contessa.  Well,  on  the 
other  side  it  cuts  a  decline  of  several  hundred 
feet.  We  found  her  there.  She  was  quite,  quite 
177 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

dead.  Her  pretty  limbs  and  neck  were  like  ivory, 
Contessa :  she  might  have  been  a  lady  in  Rome  or 
Rimini,  she  was  beautiful  enough." 

"And  her  lover?"  asked  Maria. 

Delia  Gandara  shrugged. 

"He  will  never  come  back  to  the  Tiber  valley. 
There  are  wolves  there  still.  He  is  safer  in 
Rimini  or  Rome." 

With  an  irrelevance  that  would  have  been  naive 
and  something  of  a  pose  had  it  not  been  for  his 
voice,  Delia  Gandara  said : 

"You  know  what  I  think,  what  I  am,  what  I 
want.  You  know  I  love  you." 

"Yes,"  Maria  said. 

"Plena  di  grazia!"  he  cried,  "and  you  are  em 
bittered  by  your  life,  too.  You  have  the  right  to 
doubt  me,  but  you  believe  me." 

"Yes,"  she  repeated. 

"Plena  di  grazia!"  he  repeated  tenderly. 

They  mounted,  mounted  the  hill  steadily  into 
the  rugged  country. 

"You  love  me,  too,"  Delia  Gandara  said,  "you 
178 


UP    TOWARD    THE    SNOWS 

love  me,  too.     You  know  it.     You  have  never 
loved  any  one  else." 

She  turned  her  face  to  him :  it  was  as  pale  as 
the  Virgin's  above  the  altar  in  the  Savignono 
chapel.  He  leaned  toward  her  with  a  cry,  and 
just  at  that  moment  they  both  started  as  the 
sound  of  running  feet  smote  upon  the  hard  white 
road. 

As  though  he  had  been  thrown  from  over  the 
hill  above  them,  a  peasant  came  rushing  toward 
them,  and  panting  reached  the  side  of  the  car 
riage. 

"Signore  dottore,  for  the  love  of  God !" 

He  clung  to  the  side  of  the  phaeton,  his  bare 
neck  streaming  with  the  heat  of  his  running,  his 
lips  trembling.  "Signore  dottore!" 

Delia  Gandara,  to  whom  his  coming  was  as  un 
welcome  as  possible,  spoke  sharply: 

"Well,  well !    What  is  the  matter?    Speak !" 

"Pardon — the  Virgin  has  brought  the  signore 
dottore  to  Sandolo!"  panted  the  man.     "I  was 
running  to  Pieve,  running  there,  and  it  would 
179 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

have  taken  me  hours.  Meanwhile  the  child  would 
have  been  dead." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Delia  Gandara  coldly. 
"Come,  come,  Peppe,  go  home.  Give  the  baby  a 
dose  of  hot  camomile." 

"Mamma  mia,"  cried  the  man,  "but  the  signore 
dottore  will  come?" 

"I  can't  come,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Delia 
Gandara  angrily;  'I  am  on  my  way  to  the  Le 
Baize  pass." 

The  peasant  stared,  leaned  forward,  his  pale 
brown  face  intense  and  wistful,  and  humble,  too. 
The  people  hereabouts  adored  Delia  Gandara; 
from  the  Apennines  to  Pieve  he  was  as  welcome 
as  the  host,  and  in  many  hearts  considered  as 
miraculous. 

He  said  to  Maria : " 

"They  are  lunatics,  Madame;  they  come  for 
me  all  the  way  to  Pieve  if  the  baby  cries." 

"I  was  running  to  Pieve,"  interrupted  the  man 
gently  above  his  panting  breath.  "The  bambino 
is  dying,  Dottore" 

180 


UP    TOWARD    THE    SNOWS 

Maria  had  taken  the  reins  from  her  compan 
ion's  hand. 

"Hurry,"  she  ordered,  "hurry !  Of  course  the 
doctor  will  go  with  you,"  she  said  consolingly  to 
the  peasant.  "Go  home,  go  home.  Courage, 
courage !" 

But  the  man  did  not  glance  at  her.  His  wild 
eyes  never  left  the  physician's  face.  Delia  Gan- 
dara  started  the  horse  again  and  Peppe  ran  like 
a  dog  at  his  side.  Delia  Gandara  cursed  under 
his  breath. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  means  ?  Peppe  lives 
two  miles  in  the  valley.  If  I  go  to  his  brat  I 
shall  have  to  leave  you  to  start  on  your  way 
alone.  Why  were  we  not  invisible !  Why  did  he 
find  us!" 

"How  can  you  be  so  brutal,"  his  companion 
murmured,  "you  who  have  children?" 

In  a  voice  that  was  solemn  with  feeling,  he  an 
swered  : 

"I  think  of  nothing  but  you,  nothing  but 
you!" 

181 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

They  were  hailed  again,  and  this  time  by  a 
man  with  a  white  donkey  who  waited  for  them  by 
the  roadside.  He  waved  his  cap. 

"It  is  Adamo,"  said  Delia  Gandara.  "He  will 
take  you  safely  to  Le  Baize.  I  can  trust  Adamo 
as  I  could  myself.  Must  I  let  you  go  from  me 
for  three  days  ?" 

Adamo,  a  blond-faced,  blue-eyed  peasant, 
greeted  them  with  a  radiant  smile  and  a  sweeping 
bow.  Delia  Gandara  told  Maria  that  the  peasant 
would  guard  her  as  his  life.  With  a  passionate 
solemnity  he  put  her  in  Adamo's  charge.  She 
saw  the  peasant  listen  to  him  fixedly,  accepting 
his  commission  with  reverence,  and  before  she 
knew  it  she  was  lifted  in  Delia  Gandara's  arms 
and  placed  on  the  saddle  of  the  white  ass.  Hold 
ing  her  so,  embracing  her,  his  cheek  on  hers,  he 
whispered : 

"Three  days  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  swift,  impressive,  nervous  parting. 
Peppe  waiting,  turned  his  poor  hat  in  his  hands, 
his  face  pleading  that  love  be  set  aside  for  life. 
182 


UP    TOWARD    THE    SNOWS 

The  sense  of  Delia  Gandara's  arms  was  so  in 
tense  that  her  sight  was  clouded. 

"Wait,"  she  lifted  her  hand.  "Wait,  Delia 
Gandara.  You  have  carried  me  away,  you  have 
carried  yourself  away."  Her  blue  eyes,  deep  as 
the  Galilean  sea,  were  fixed  upon  him.  "Take 
this  time  to  forget  me,  to  understand  that  I  can 
be  nothing  to  you,  nothing." 

"Three  days,"  he  repeated  quietly,  ignoring 
her  coldness.  "Three  days.  If  you  do  not  re 
turn,  I  shall  come  for  you.  Miracles  have  been 
wrought  in  a  shorter  time.  Christ  performed  the 
resurrection  of  the  body  in  three  days." 

Here  the  impatient  peasant  pulled  Delia  Gan 
dara  by  the  arm. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  for  the  love  of  God, 
go!"  said  the  contessa.  "Cure  his  child.  See 
what  touching  faith  he  has !  You  speak  of  mira 
cles:  work  your  own  miracle  of  healing.  You 
speak  of  coming  to  me — go  to  him.  Everything 
you  do  I  shall  be  glad  of.  Go.  Please  go !" 

He  gave  her  a  long  look  that  left  her  trem- 
183 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

bling,  although  the  flame  of  it  warmed  her,  and 
he  followed  hastily  after  the  peasant  who  had 
already  turned  and  fled. 

The  contessa  on  the  white  donkey,  the  brown 
hillocks  before  her,  as  well  as  the  unknown  way 
which  cut  into  the  forest,  started  on  her  mountain 
journey.  She  turned  in  her  saddle  to  watch  Delia 
Gandara  as  he  strode  across  the  road.  No  one 
waited  for  her  to  bring  life.  She  was  alone  again 
as  she  had  been  for  desolate  ugly  years.  She  saw 
Delia  Gandara  disappear  behind  a  dip  in  the 
hills.  He  did  not  turn  or  look  back  at  her,  but 
she  understood  it  and  knew  that  if  he  had  once 
looked  about  he  could  not  have  gone  on  his  errand 
of  mercy. 

"If  the  Eccellenza  is  ready,"  said  the  honeyed 
voice  of  Adamo,  "there  is  a  storm  in  the  air,  and 
one  does  not  wish  to  be  caught  in  the  snow." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MADONNA    MARIA 

IN  spite  of  them  all  then,  she  had  boldly  be 
gun  her  journey,  ridden  off  the  high  road 
into  the  Apennines  toward  which  Delia  Gandara 
and  she  had  been  driving  slowly  for  twelve  miles. 
The  village  of  Sandolo  already  lay  in  the  dis 
tance  below  the  hillocks  whose  copper-colored 
peaks  have  a  legendary  charm.  She  must  now 
climb  to  Le  Baize,  hanging  high  in  the  snows, 
and  the  idea  of  it  became  detestable,  although  it 
had  been  a  Mecca  which  for  a  fortnight  had  ob 
stinately  drawn  her. 

It  was  detestable  because  she  was  deliberately 
turning  her  back  on  Sandro  della  Gandara,  go 
ing  away  from  him  as  fast  as  the  donkey's  steps 
could  carry  her.  She  was  not  philosophic,  in 
stinctive  rather — a  blind  woman  who  walked  with 
outstretched  hands  to  find  some  object  to  guide 
185 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

her.  To  her  tortured  mind  Le  Baize  had  seemed 
a  place  of  rest  from  the  problems  of  her  un 
happy  married  life,  and  she  had  groped  toward 
it,  now  to  see  that  she  had  made  a  mistake. 

On  her  white  donkey  she  entered  the  odorous 
forest  of  cedars  and  mountain  pines,  and  the  de 
scent  was  sharp,  the  trail  stony  under  the  don 
key's  feet.  The  falling  pebbles,  as  the  hoofs  of 
the  ass  displaced  them,  the  crackling  of  the 
branches  as  Adamo  held  them  back,  the  rustle  of 
the  young  river  in  the  gorge  below,  the  call  of  a 
bird  sharply  sweet  and  inquiring,  made  music  for 
her  as  she  traveled.  Once  as  the  donkey  cleverly 
picked  her  way  down  a  steep  descent,  Adamo 
said: 

"Gemma  has  a  soul,  Eccellenza.  I  love  her 
next  my  wife." 

Mile  upon  mile  of  russet-colored,  undulating, 
hill  land  stretched  before  her  where  the  country 
was  the  color  of  molten  gold.  The  rocks  seemed 
part  of  a  precious  mine.  Over  the  little  hillocks 
the  donkey  carefully  felt  her  way. 
186 


MADONNA    MARIA 

Maria's  checks  were  like  roses.  A  fine  sweet 
color  daily  blossomed  in  them.  In  the  distance 
was  a  cedar  forest  outlining  the  edge  of  the 
mountainside,  and  she  must  climb  it  with  Adamo, 
who  regarded  her  curiously.  She  was  the  first 
lady  he  had  ever  seen.  He  was  a  simple-faced 
fellow  with  a  devoted  look  in  his  eyes  and  an  en 
chanting  smile. 

"Ecco!  here  is  your  good  Adamo,  Eccellen- 
za,"  he  exclaimed,  laying  his  hand  on  the  flank 
of  the  ass.  "Gemma  is  a  treasure,  Eccellenza, 
an  angel." 

Maria  smiled  at  him  and  praised  the  faithful 
donkey. 

"Yes,  yes,  Eccellenza,  I  only  have  to  whisper 
'Le  Baize'  in  her  ear  and  she  will  take  you  there. 
Not  that  I  would  trust  the  Eccellenza  to  Gemma ! 
Surely!  The  sindaco  il  signore  dottore  would 
take  my  life — he  told  me  so,"  said  Adamo  calmly. 
"He  says  that  he  will  kill  me  if  any  harm  comes 
lo  the  Eccellenza." 

187 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Adamo  walked  sturdily,  his  hand  on  Gemma. 

"The  signore  dottore  is  a  great  man,  Eccel- 
lenza ;  he  has  but  to  cross  the  threshold,  and  the 
sick  one  is  well." 

"That  is  indeed  wonderful,"  exclaimed  Maria, 
and  her  eyes  softened.  She  looked  into  the  piny 
growth  of  forest  toward  which  they  drew  near: 
it  was  cool  and  sweet  and  dark.  It  should  have 
been  Delia  Gandara  walking  there  by  her  side, 
charming  her  and  drawing  her,  demanding, 
praying:  "Adorata  mia!"  No,  she  would  not  let 
herself  remember  that  voice  or  pleading. 

"I  can  understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said 
to  Adamo,  and  she  could  indeed,  for  she  thought 
that  if  she  were  dying  and  he  crossed  her  thresh 
old  with  his  triumphant  look  and  his  appeal, 
"Come,  come !"  she  would  instantly  rise  and  come 
to  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Adamo,  "he  is  very  strong  and  he 
came  once  in  winter  on  foot  from  Pieve  because 
his  horse  could  not  travel ;  and  my  last  baby  was 
born  then ;  he  can  save  everybody,  Eccellenza !" 
188 


MADONNA    MARIA 

And  Maria  Sant'  Alcione  thought:  "He  can 
save  every  one  but  me,  my  good  Adamo." 

"My  baby  is  named  Sandro  for  the  signore 
dottore,  Eccellenza,  because  he  is  so  very  good. 
There  is  no  one  like  him,"  continued  the  guide. 
"Nobile  slgnori  are  not  like  that ;  he  h'ves  in  lit 
tle  Pieve  to  help  the  poor,  and  he  might  be  a 
prince  in  Rome.  It  is  better  than  the  history  of 
the  Marchese  Fasteti  of  Rimini.  There  are  no 
evil  tales  about  the  mayor." 

Behind  them  now  lay  the  yellow,  rolling,  dip 
ping,  golden  hillocks.  Maria  looked  back  on 
them  before  entering  the  wood,  the  elfin  country, 
weird,  melancholy,  beautiful,  and  it  separated 
her  from  Sandolo  and  Savignono  and  Pieve. 

Before  them,  like  a  distant  voice  that  called 
and  admonished,  that  solemnly  appealed,  she 
heard  the  call  of  Le  Baize,  and  at  her  side,  small, 
vigorous,  already  lion-like  in  strength,  she  heard 
the  rush  of  the  Tiber  running  to  its  love,  and 
Delia  Gandara's  voice  seemed  to  say :  "Think  of 
Savignono  and  how  the  Tiber  folds  it." 
189 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

No,  no,  in  Le  Baize  she  would  think  of  none  of 
these  things. 

Adamo  looked  up  at  her  with  a  sweet  childlike 
smile. 

"I  will  guard  you  with  my  life,  Eccellenza." 

"You  can  not  guard  me  from  myself,  or  from 
him,  my  good  Adamo,"  she  said  aloud  in  English. 

They  crossed  the  forest  border,  and  as  if  he 
thought  that  darkness  might  startle  his  lady, 
Adamo  went  to  the  ass's  head  to  put  aside  the 
great  branches  of  the  trees. 

After  they  had  been  plodding  for  an  hour, 
Maria  stopped  to  eat  a  bit  of  bread  and  cheese, 
and  to  drink  a  little  wine  that  had  been  strapped 
on  the  back  of  the  saddle.  She  smiled  at  the 
avidity  with  which  she  devoured  these  humble 
victuals. 

It  was  now  a  fortnight  since  she  had  taken  a 
good  meal;  food,  except  as  it  kept  life  in  her, 
ceased  to  occupy  any  place  in  her  consideration. 
Adamo  waited  patiently  and  Maria  broke  off  in 
the  midst  of  her  humble  feast  to  offer  him  a  bit 
190 


MADONNA    MARIA 

of  bread  and  the  rest  of  the  bottle  of  wine.  As 
he  took  them  from  her  gratefully,  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  her:  she  saw  an  expression  of  wonder 
cross  his  simple  face. 

"Thank  you,  Eccellenza,"  he  stammered. 

She  asked  some  question  about  the  road,  took 
off  her  hat,  ruffled  her  dark  hair. 

"See,  Adamo,  how  dark  it  grows.  Does  it 
mean  rain?  I  hope  it  will  not  mean  snow." 

"It  may,"  he  answered.  "Eccellenza,  it  will 
delay  us.  I  will  unfold  the  cape." 

At  the  back  of  the  saddle  she  now  perceived 
that  Delia  Gandara  had  rolled  and  strapped  his 
own  mantle,  one  she  had  often  seen  him  wear 
gracefully.  As  the  guide  put  it  around  her 
shoulders  it  infolded  her  like  Delia  Gandara's 
tenderness. 

The  snow  and  rain  began  to  mingle ;  her  hands 
grew  cold  and  stiff.  An  icy  wind  blew  against 
her  face  and  lips. 

"How  far  is  it,  Adamo  ?  When  will  we  get  to 
Le  Baize?" 

191 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

He  did  not  reply:  the  white  ass  plodded  on 
tranquilly  choosing  her  way. 

The  storm  made  a  singing  sound  in  the  leaves. 
The  snow,  now  an  inch  deep,  crunched  under 
Gemma's  hoofs. 

Maria  shivered,  brushed  the  snow  from  her 
eyes  and  tried  to  peer  through  the  dark  twilight 
of  the  wood. 

"Adamo !    How  soon  shall  we  be  there?" 

Pulling  up  her  donkey  she  turned  to  see  Adamo 
kneeling  in  the  trail,  praying. 

"What  can  it  be?"  she  wondered.  "Of  what 
is  he  afraid?  Are  we  lost?  Adamo!  Adamo! 
Come  and  lead  Gemma,  let  us  get  on." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
as  he  stared  at  her,  then  turned  and  fled,  leaving 
her  alone  on  the  Le  Baize  trail  in  the  falling 
snow. 

She  was  frankly  terrified  and  wondered 
whether  to  turn  Qemma  about  and  retrace  her 
way  to  Sandolo,  or  to  go  on.  If  it  was  danger 
ous  to  continue,  it  was  as  much  so  to  return ;  but 
192 


MADONNA    MARIA 

Maria  had  no  voice  in  the  matter.  Gemma  had 
stoutly  made  up  her  mind.  Indifferent  to 
Maria's  light  hand  on  the  rein,  and  her  unaccus 
tomed  voice,  the  ass  sturdily  pursued  the  way  she 
had  begun. 

Sometimes  the  mounting  was  very  difficult  and 
she  struggled  with  the  ascent,  panting  under  her 
burden.  With  a  fidelity  that  put  Adamo  to 
shame,  she  continued  her  way  as  though  indeed 
she  bore  a  sacred  woman  and  would  not  betray 
her  trust,  beast  though  she  was. 

The  rider  was  frozen  to  the  marrow ;  her  hands 
grew  so  stiff  she  could  scarcely  hold  the  leather 
of  Gemma's  bridle.  "If  Gemma  should  stumble 
and  fall !  If  we  are  snowbound  here,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "we  shall  freeze  to  death."  This  at  all 
events  would  be  the  solution  of  the  problem.  Per 
haps  this  was  why  it  had  been  so  difficult  for  her 
to  reach  Le  Baize.  She  spoke  softly,  encourag 
ingly  to  the  ass.  Finally,  after  making  an  ascent 
that  seemed  almost  perpendicular,  Gemma  stop 
ped  and  stood  panting  and  trembling. 
193 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Good  Gemma,  brave  Gemma'!"  The  words 
sounded  lonely  in  the  intense  cold  stillness. 

The  Tiber  ran  under  snow  and  ice  at  her  side. 
A  hand's-breath  wide,  it  was  nevertheless  an 
impetuous  tearing  stream,  its  impulse  already  tre 
mendous,  impelled  forth  from  its  mountain  cav 
ern  by  an  eternal  source. 

Gemma  started  of  her  own  accord,  took  her 
way  without  command;  the  forest  broke  into  the 
open,  into  the  white  snow,  into  the  winter  twi 
light.  They  crossed  the  first  bridge  over  the 
Tiber,  a  tiny  medieval  structure  with  a  cross  at 
the  Le  Baize  end.  Maria  saw  a  rude  stone  church 
on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge  and  a  group  of 
torch-bearers  coming  into  the  open.  They  gath 
ered  around  an  empty  bier;  as  Gemma  carried 
Maria  past  the  mourners,  the  peasants  stared  at 
the  lady  on  her  white  ass. 

"Good  evening,"  she  said  graciously,  "can  you 
tell  me  where  Maria  Goanelli  lives  ?" 

One  of  the  peasants  snatched  off  his  hat  and 
came  up  to  her,  his  torch  flaming  in  his  hand. 
194 


She  seemed  to  shine  in  the  torch-light. 


MADONNA    MARIA 

"Giulia  Goanelli,"  he  said,  "it  is  the  first 
louse." 

She  was  white  with  snow,  her  hat,  her  cape; 
she  seemed  to  shine  in  the  torch-light.  Her  pale 
beautiful  face  with  the  gentian-blue  eyes  bent  on 
the  peasant  who  had  buried  his  dead.  The  man 
murmured  something  indistinctly,  called  to  his 
companions,  but  before  they  could  come  up  to 
him,  Gemma  of  her  own  accord  started  on. 

Through  the  falling  snow  and  rain,  Maria 
saw  the  huddling  forms  of  the  village  houses 
where  the  black  hamlet  spread  its  tiny  shadow  on 
the  snow.  She  could  hardly  move  her  frozen  fin 
gers  ;  she  could  feel  the  tears  congealed  in  her 
eyes.  Here  and  there  from  the  dark  mass  of  Le 
Baize  shone  out  a  deep-set  crimson  light  from  a 
candle  far  back  in  some  low  thick-walled  house. 
She  trembled  with  fatigue  in  her  saddle.  Gemma 
plodded  on  through  the  snow,  and  at  the  first 
house  in  the  village  she  stopped.  A  rotten  flight 
of  steps  led  to  the  first  story,  over  the  door  hung 
a  sign.  This  was  the  inn  of  the  lost  hamlet  in 
195 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

the  Apennines,  of  whose  existence  no  one  had 
seemed  to  know.  She  remembered  now  that  the 
Goanellis  kept  an  inn,  and  Gemma,  as  though 
trained  humbly  to  deposit  a  holy  burden,  bend 
ing  her  fore  legs,  kneeled  meekly  down. 

Maria's  limbs  were  so  stiff  she  could  scarcely 
mount  the  steps,  and  before  her  the  black  door 
studded  with  nails  shut  her  away  from  shelter. 
As  she  knocked  she  heard  a  child  crying  within, 
and  the  murmur  of  little  voices.  Finally  she 
heard  a  child's  voice  ask:  "Who  is  there? 
Chi  e  la?" 

"A  traveler  for  Giulia  Goanelli.  Open,  open 
per  amore." 

There  were  little  whispers  and  the  bolt  was 
drawn.  As  she  went  in  she  was  met  by  the  heavy 
stench  of  a  room  lived  in  by  many  persons,  the 
smell  of  smoking  logs,  of  cooking  broth ;  and  by 
the  light  of  the  fagot  fire  across  a  hearth  some 
six  feet  wide,  she  saw  that  she  stood  in  the  center 
of  a  group  of  children.  The  eldest,  a  little  girl 
not  more  than  ten  years  of  age,  held  a  wailing 
196 


MADONNA    MARIA 

baby  in  her  arms.  The  children  stared  at  her  as 
she  smiled,  extending  her  icy  hands. 

"Where  is  the  mother?  Where  is  Maria  Go- 
anelli?" 

The  six  children,  beautiful,  dirty,  half-clcthed, 
their  eyes  like  velvet,  their  cheeks  like  winter 
roses,  clustered  in  an  awed,  curious,  little  group. 

"La  mamma  is  out,  and  the  father  as  well." 

Maria  drew  off  her  soaking  gloves. 

"Let  me  warm  myself  by  the  fire."  She  ap 
proached  it;  the  water  began  to  drip  from  her 
clothes,  her  hair  was  damp  about  her  white  face. 
In  the  recess  of  the  fireplace  an  iron  pot  boiled 
and  bubbled,  and  near  to  it,  in  the  fireplace  itself, 
stood  a  little  stool.  One  of  the  children,  a  boy  of 
six,  ran  to  the  hearth,  then  crept  like  a  little 
gnome  and  took  his  place  by  the  steaming  broth, 
gazing  eagerly  into  the  soup-pot.  The  tongue 
of  the  eldest  child  was  loosed.  "Be  welcome," 
she  murmured,  "the  bambino  is  very  sick." 

"Poor  little  thing!"  Maria  glanced  at  the 
group  whose  tender  years  did  not  offer  much  help 
197 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

to  her.  "My  donkey  is  outside,"  she  said  help 
lessly,  "I  am  afraid  she  will  freeze  in  the  snow 
and  cold." 

"Ecco!"  exclaimed  the  little  girl,  and  to  the 
boy  by  the  soup-pot :  "Pietro,  go  take  the  asina 
into  the  shed,  go !" 

She  was  a  mature  little  thing,  already  like  the 
mother  of  a  family,  with  the  unselfish  sweetness, 
the  maternal  authority  of  an  elder  sister  whose 
young  unformed  breast  has  sheltered  little  heads, 
whose  hands  have  washed  and  tended. 

"But  your  brother  is  too  small,"  objected  the 
contessa. 

"Ma  chel"  said  the  elder  sister.  "It  is  his 
work  for  father."  The  infant  in  her  arms  had 
hushed  its  crying. 

The  traveler  took  off  her  wet  cape  and  hung 
it,  dripping,  on  a  chair,  then  sat  down  on  a  settle 
near  the  blazing  fagots  and  stretched  out  her 
hands  to  the  glow.  The  children  stood  around 
her,  staring. 

"Can  I  have  a  cup  of  broth,  Bambina?" 
198 


'Surely,"  nodded  the  little  girl.  "Giulia, 
fetch  a  cup." 

"I  will  dip  it  out  myself,"  Maria  offered.  The 
smell  of  the  peasant  soup  was  delicious  to  her  as 
she  bent  over  the  pot,  but  as  she  looked  in  she 
saw  there  was  scarcely  enough  to  feed  three  peo 
ple — it  had  simmered  to  its  ebb. 

"Children,"  she  asked  faintly,  "is  there  no 
more  supper,  is  this  all  there  is  for  six  of  you?" 

"It  is  all,  Signora,  eat  and  be  welcome." 

Already  the  other  little  creatures  had  drawn 
near  and  closed  round  her,  the  firelight  shining 
in  their  eyes.  It  was  not  customary  to  touch  the 
broth  until  later;  the  smallest  began  to  cry  for 
"mamma"  and  supper,  and  Maria  poured  the 
soup  back  into  the  pot. 

"Have  you  any  milk  or  bread?"  she  asked 
weakly. 

"Nothing,"  exclaimed  the  little  mother,  "abso 
lutely  nothing." 

The  baby  began  its  dolorous  wail  again. 
Maria  Sant'  Alcione  held  out  her  hands.  "Give 
199 


THE    BROKEN    BELt 

me  the  bambino,"  she  prayed  desperately.  Her 
arms  trembled  with  fatigue  and  her  hands  shook 
pitifully. 

The  little  girl  gave  over  the  bundle  of  rags  to 
Maria. 

She  had  not  held  a  child  in  her  arms  since  her 
own  had  lain  there,  the  first  time  since  three  long 
years.  She  would  have  held  her  husband  in  those 
empty  arms,  but  he  had  not  wished  for  this 
refuge.  Nothing  else  had  come  to  them  until 
now.  Down  in  Pieve,  more  than  once,  looking  at 
Delia  Gandara's  beautiful  head,  she  had  wanted 
to  take  it  to  her  breast.  Now  the  feeling  of  a 
child's  body  in  her  arms  sent  a  shiver  through 
her — it  seemed  to  be  her  own  that  she  held,  and 
to  be  little  Sandro  that  she  looked  down  upon. 
Her  bosom  heave3,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
The  child  was  thin  and  pale,  unlike  his  sturdy 
brothers  and  sisters,  his  meager  hands  were  like 
bird's  claws,  his  tiny  face  pinched  and  appeal 
ing,  and  his  eyes  looked  up  wonderingly  at  the 
strange  face,  and  at  the  tears.  Maria  bent  over 
200 


MADONNA    MARIA 

the  baby,  consoling  it.  It  stopped  its  crying,  its 
body  relaxed. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  bambino  ?" 

"Carmela,"  informed  the  little  sister  nodding 
at  Maria  and  showing  her  gleaming  white  teeth. 
"I  am  Carmela.  I'll  be  ten  years  old  at  Easter 
and  I've  been  confirmed.  The  bambino  is  always 
ill  but  to-day  he  is  very  ill.  We  think  he  will 
die.  La  mamma  has  gone  to  get  the  mayor.  He 
is  a  doctor." 

The  mayor?  Maria  thought  of  Delia  Gan- 
dara  and  her  heart  beat.  "Where  does  the  mayor 
live?" 

"At  the  end  of  Le  Baize,"  said  the  little  girl. 
"One  has  to  climb.  The  storm  has  made  the 
mother  late." 

Maria  looked  down  at  the  quieted  child  whose 
eyes  were  fastened  on  her.  It  seemed  beautiful 
to  her.  Exhausted  as  she  was,  trembling  with 
fatigue  and  cold  and  hunger,  her  nerves  played 
upon  by  emotions  and  warfare,  she  found  her 
senses  blurring,  and  as  she  looked  down  at  the 
201 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

child,  it  seemed  to  have  become  her  own  baby 
that  she  held,  but  the  child  she  had  borne  and 
nursed  was  not  so  divine  as  this. 

"Be  blessed,"  she  murmured,  and  made  over  it 
the  sign  of  the  cross.  "I  have  suffered,"  she 
thought,  "God  knows  I  have ;  as  yet  I  have  done 
nothing  wrong.  I  may  bless  it  with  a  clean 
heart." 

The  child  smiled  on  her  faintly,  and  put  up  its 
fragile  hand  to  her  breast.  Carmela-with  the 
others  who  had  come  close  to  the  stranger,  cried : 
"See,  the  bambino  is  smiling — he  is  laughing, 
see!" 

Maria  heard  a  sound  without  the  door,  which 
opened,  Pietro  ran  in.  "Here  is  the  mother. 
Ecco!" 

A  peasant  woman  "wrapped  in  a  black  cape, 
with  a  handsome  open  countenance,  her  bare 
head  wet  with  the  storm,  came  in,  followed  by  a 
gray-haired  man.  The  little  children  rushed  to 
the  mother  but  Carmela  remained  by  the 
stranger's  side. 

202 


MADONNA    MARIA 

"Mammina,  mammina!"  cried  the  little  girl. 
"The  baby  is  well,  he  is  smiling.  See !" 

Maria  Sant'  Alcione  saw  the  peasant  woman 
start  forward,  then  pause,  and  the  light  of  rec 
ognition  on  her  face  changed  to  awe.  Thinking 
Maria  Goanelli  recognized  her  mistress  and 
not  wanting  to  disturb  the  tranquil  child  on  her 
breast,  the  contessa  only  smiled  and  nodded,  and 
so  sat,  her  loosened  hair  about  her  face,  her  deep 
blue  eyes  tender  with  love  for  the  woman  who 
had  nursed  her  son.  Then  as  no  one  moved  she 
cried : 

"Maria,  my  good  Maria,  see,  I  have  come 
to  Le  Baize  after  this  long  time." 

To  her  dismay  the  woman  fell  on  her  knees, 
the  mayor  followed  her  example. 

"Ah!  Bonta  Divina,  Bonta  Divina!"  Maria 
Goanelli  cried,  "bless  us,  bless  us !" 

The  contessa  rose,  the  child  in  her  arms,  and 
went  over  to  the  kneeling  mother. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  she  said  calmly,  al 
though  pale  as  death.  "Don't  you  know  me? 
203 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Get  up  at  once,  Maria.  I  have  come  from  Na 
ples  to  see  you.  Here,  hold  out  your  arms  ;  take 
your  baby,  the  poor  little  thing  seems  quiet." 

"Mother  of  God !"  murmured  the  peasant,  ris 
ing  to  her  feet.  "I  thought  the  Eccellenza 
was  the  Madonna,  and  I'm  not  yet  really  sure 
that  she  isn't.  Nobody  but  the  Madonna  could 
get  here  on  such  a  night." 

She  seized  her  mistress's  hands  and  kissed 
them,  and  burst  into  joyful  welcome,  saying  over 
and  over  again  that  she  was  only  half  persuaded, 
and  hustling  the  poor  old  mayor  into  the  corner 
by  the  fire  with  Pietro. 

The  baby,  perfectly  quiet,  was  carried  to  his 
bed  in  the  corner,  and  his  mother,  her  fine  eyes 
sparkling  and  radiant  with  delight,  took  her 
guest  in  charge. 

Maria  Goanelli  was  a  charming  figure  among 
her  brood,  with  her  dark  hair,  her  dark  eyes,  her 
dignity  and  her  expressive  affectionate  smile.  By 
her  side  the  Contessa  Sant'  Alcione  was  as  tall 
as  she,  and  the  two  Marias  talked  together  in  the 
204 


MADONNA    MARIA 

firelight  while  outside  the  snows  obliterated  the 
path  to  Pieve  and  to  Rimini,  and  many  other 
paths,  and  in  her  stall  Gemma  ate  her  supper  be 
tween  a  new-born  calf  and  its  mother. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM 

MARIA  GOANELLI  had  just  left  her, 
after  offering  to  her  mistress  the  best 
Le  Baize  afforded  in  the  way  of  supper  and 
lodging.  The  supper  was  a  bowl  of  warm  milk, 
a  piece  of  black  bread.  Maria  had  eaten  in  the 
midst  of  the  family,  the  peasant  woman  kneeling 
by  her  side.  Now  she  found  herself  alone:  be 
fore  her  the  long  hours  of  the  night — the  first 
night  in  the  distant  village,  to  reach  which  she 
had  left  a  husband,  and  denied  herself  love. 

In  Arezzo  she  had  given  to  the  flames  the  let 
ters  which  told  of  the  petty  passion  of  a  man  to 
whom  she  was  indifferent.  In  Pieve  night  after 
night  she  had  struggled  with  her  growing  love — 
and  here?  Perhaps  physical  weakness  had  pro 
duced  a  state  of  exaltation.  At  all  events  she 
206 


THE    GLORY    AND    THE    DREAM 

felt  spiritualized  and  uplifted  as  though  the 
mountain  climbing  had  really  carried  her  upward 
for  immaterial  miles. 

In  the  attic  without,  the  little  children  slept, 
but  there  was  no  sound  but  the  rustle  of  the  snow 
at  the  window,  and  Maria  could  almost  hear  her 
heart  beat.  She  began  to  re-live  the  hours  with 
the  man  at  Pieve.  She  heard  him  say,  his  dark 
eyes  upon  hers :  "Three  days,  innamorata,  three 
days !" 

And  this  was  the  first  of  them !  To  think  of 
undressing  was  out  of  the  question.  She  had  her 
things  for  the  night  in  the  little  parcel  Gemma 
carried  on  the  saddle.  She  only  removed  her  slip 
pers,  and  lay  down  on  the  hard  bed,  shiveringly 
drawing  the  eider-down  over  her,  and  trembling 
in  a  chill.  But  the  blood  was  in  her  head  and 
around  her  heart,  and  her  pulses  beat  wildly. 
She  had  never  been  so  mastered  by  the  thought 
of  any  man.  How  should  she  pass  to-morrow  in 
this  hut  in  the  wilderness,  without  comforts  or 
even  food?  She  seemed  to  smell  the  acrid  odors 
207 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

of  the  room  below  with  its  smoking  fire  and  cling 
ing  children.  Maria  Goanelli,  whom  she  had 
thought  she  had  wanted  to  see,  was  as  distant  to 
her  interest  as  was  everything  that  did  not  touch 
Delia  Gandara.  The  third  day  she  would  return 
if  the  snow  did  not  obliterate  the  paths.  God 
grant  it  would  not.  If  she  stayed,  would  he  come 
for  her  as  he  had  threatened  to  do?  During  the 
next  forty-eight  hours  she  must  find  new 
strength  to  resist  him,  to  deny  him  and  herself. 

Le  Baize,  strange,  primitive,  forgotten  spot, 
must  prove  itself  the  shrine,  the  retreat,  that  she 
had  believed  it  would  be.  She  must,  by  some  act 
of  self-immolation  and  sacrifice,  expiate  the  sin 
of  her  desires  and  assure  herself  her  soul's  future 
peace  and  his.  On  the  other  hand  she  asked  her 
self :  "Why  should  1  not  choose  happiness  in 
stead  of  peace  ?  He  has  been  sent  to  me  to  com 
pensate  for  my  starved  years.  What  woman, 
bound  as  I  am  to  a  man  who  does  not  love  her, 
would  hesitate  to  make  her  own  life?" 

She  thought  that  if  she  did  not  have  some  sleep 
208 


THE    GLORY    AND    THE    DREAM 

this  night  that  she  would  fall  ill.  She  might  even 
have  pneumonia  here  in  this  icy  wilderness,  and 
that  would  end  it  all.  She  was,  however,  very 
much  alive  and  very  cold.  Her  human  thoughts 
and  desires  failed  to  warm  her  as  she  lay,  glow 
ing  and  radiant  as  they  were.  Suddenly  she 
fancied  that  she  heard  from  down-stairs  the  cry 
ing  of  the  child,  the  bambino  of  Maria  Goa- 
nelli  who  had  awakened,  and  she  remembered  how 
it  had  quieted  lying  in  her  arms. 

"Poor   little   creature,"    she  thought,    "poor 
Maria  Goanelli." 

As  she  mused  the  words  half  aloud,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  again  felt  in  her  arms  the  light 
weight  of  the  baby's  form.  Indeed  it  was  so  pal 
pable  and  so  real  that  it  was  as  though  the  infant 
lay  there  again.  Her  arms,  which  were  folded 
across  her  breast,  were  once  more  a  cradle.  The 
weight  grew  heavier,  it  hung  on  her  like  lead, 
pressing  her  bosom  so  cruelly  that  her  heart 
seemed  to  break  and  she  could  have  cried  out. 
Dazed  by  cold  and  hunger  and  fatigue,  she  mur- 
209 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

inured:  "Is  it  my  wicked  love  for  Sandro  della 
Gandara  that  weighs  so  on  my  mind?"  She 
sighed. 

But  it  was  only  the  child's  form  she  seemed  to 
hold.  She  could  distinctly  feel  the  soft  cheek 
against  her  own,  distinctly  feel  the  weight  of  its 
body  in  her  arms;  she  murmured  the  name  of 
her  own  child,  "Sandro,  little  Sandro,"  and  as 
the  weight  lifted  she  felt  a  release  of  her  senses 
and  strained  nerves ;  the  agony  was  passed.  She 
raised  herself  on  her  pillow,  still  seeming  to  hold 
the  child  in  her  circling  arms,  and  her  arms  were 
full  of  glory. 

Through  the  icy  room  a  faint  light  spread 
palpitating  from  the  bed  where  she  lay.  A  de 
licious  warmth  stole  through  her  cold  limbs  and 
body,  bringing  a  heavenly  drowsiness  and  peace ; 
she  sank  down  gratefully,  closing  her  eyes  and 
thinking  she  should  sleep,  and  from  beneath  her 
eyelids  the  child  she  held  seemed  her  own  again, 
yet  not  her  human  child,  for  the  face  she  dreamed 
upon  was  too  divine. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    MIRACLE    OF    HEALING 


baby  was  saved  by  a  miracle,  Eccel- 
lenza." 

"Nonsense,  my  good  Maria,  nonsense  !  Mira 
cles  do  not  arrive  like  that  nowadays." 

"A  miracle,  Eccellenza  !  I  left  him  at  death's 
door  —  I  return  to  find  him  smiling  in  the  Eccel- 
lenza's  arms.  He's  been  like  an  angel  ever 
since.  What  else  would  it  be  but  a  miracle?" 

Once  again  before  the  fire  in  the  peasant's 
kitchen,  a  black  shawl  around  her  shoulders, 
Maria  Sant'  Alcione  sat  like  a  queen  enthroned. 
By  her  side  Maria  Goanclli  rapidly  knitted  a 
stocking  for  her  husband  Giulia,  always  away 
on  some  mountain  journey.  Brooded  over  by  lit 
tle  Carmela,  the  children  whispered  in  a  distant 
corner  with  their  homely  playthings. 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Indeed!"  pursued  the  nurse,  nodding. 
"When  I  came  in  and  saw  the  picture  before  the 
fire  I  thought  that  the  Madonna  had  .  .  ." 

"Hush,  Maria,  you  are  sacrilegious." 

"The  Le  Baize  people  thought  so,  too.  They 
told  Pietro  so  this  morning  when  you  passed  the 
church  on  your  white  ass." 

"Hush,  Maria  .  .  ." 

"At  all  events,"  said  the  peasant,  clicking  her 
needles,  "it  is  a  miracle  that  the  Eccellenza  should 
come  here  in  the  storm  to  see  her  servant." 

"I  longed  to  see  her,  Maria." 

The  Italian  impulsively  leaned  over,  seized  one 
of  her  mistress's  hands  and  kissed  it. 

"I  have  always  prayed  for  the  Eccellenza 
.  .  ."  she  murmured,  and  her  mistress  pursued : 

"I  longed  to  see  some  one  who  had  held  my  lit 
tle  child." 

"The  angel  Sandro,"  cried  the  nurse,  "what  a 
heavenly  little  baby,  wasn't  he,  Eccellenza  ?" 

The  two  women  gazed  and  saw  each  other 
through  tears.  ("TAw,"  Maria  Sant'  Alcione 


THE    MIRACLE    OF    HEALING 

thought,  "is  what  I  have  come  to  see.  These 
tears  of  remembrance  in  Maria  Goanelli's  eyes.") 

"And  the  Eccellenze?"  asked  the  nurse,  still 
sighing.  "The  Conte  Sant'  Alcione  is  in  good 
health?" 

"I  believe  so,  I  think  so,"  her  mistress  indiffer 
ently  replied,  and  leaning  forward  said  impul 
sively:  "I'm  very  unhappy,  Maria  Goanelli. 
I'm  very  unhappy,  indeed !" 

The  peasant  stopped  knitting,  holding  her 
wool  closely  in  her  rough  hands. 

"Mamma  mia,  what  is  the  matter,  Eccellenza, 
mia?" 

"No,"  Maria  thought  to  herself,  "this  is  what 
I  have  come  all  these  miles  to  find,  this  tender 
look  of  comprehension  on  a  human  face  that 
loves  me."  Except  for  the  few  words  to  Delia 
Gandara,  she  had  never  spoken  of  her  griefs 
before.  Faversham  had  discovered  them,  but  he 
was  a  judge  and  seer;  this  humble  friend,  sister, 
and  mother  understood  life  better.  She  leaned 
still  farther  forward,  the  black  coarse  shawl 
213 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

wrapped  around  her  shoulders,  her  deep  blue  eyes 
fixing  themselves  appealingly  on  the  nurse  of 
her  son. 

"My  heart  is  broken,  Maria.  I  came  away 
from  Naples  because  I  couldn't  bear  it  any 
more." 

"Poor  Eccellenza.  It  is  because  there  are  no 
more  children,  Eccellenza !" 

The  contessa  shuddered : 

"No,  thank  goodness,  there  are  no  more !"  She 
saw  that  Maria  Goanelli  had  not  understood, 
and  caught  herself  up.  "No,"  she  repeated 
slowly,  "no,  little  Sandro  was  all  I  wanted. 
There  could  never  be  another !" 

"Ecco!"  exclaimed  the  peasant  more  cheer 
fully.  "They're  all  so  different,  Eccellenza. 
Carmela  is  a  little  mother.  The  father  could  not 
get  along  without  Pietro.  Angela  and  Gemma 
are  little  devils,  but  so  sweet,  so  carmo."  The 
maternity  of  her  expression  was  beautiful.  She 
dropped  her  voice.  "For  me,  I  love  the  sickly 
bambino  best  of  all."  She  put  her  hand  caress- 


THE    MIRACLE    OF    HEALING 

ingly  on  her  mistress's  knee.  "Courage,  Eccel- 
lenza.  All  will  be  well  .  .  ." 

Maria  Sant'  Alcione  was  silent.  It  was  best 
that  the  woman  should  think  this  natural  thing. 
What  right  had  she  to  fetch  her  sacred  griefs  to 
the  common  .level  of  a  peasant's  life?  A  faint 
color  mounted  to  her  pale  cheek.  The  peasant 
had  taken  up  her  knitting  peacefully. 

"The  children  link  the  husband  and  wife  to 
gether,  Eccellenza.  When  we  were  first  married 
Giulia  took  too  much  wine.  As  each  child  came, 
I  asked  him  to  make  me  a  fresh  promise,  and  now 
he  only  gets  drunk  at  the  christenings,  poor  fel 
low." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  nurse  asked 
affectionately,  with  no  thought  that  her  query 
was  inhospitable: 

"When  does  the  Eccellenza  go  back?" 

"Go  back  where?"  responded  her  mistress 
vaguely. 

"Back  to  Naples,  Madonna  mia!" 

"I  shall  never  go  back  again,"  exclaimed  her 
215 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

mistress  passionately,  "never!"  And  as  she  said 
this  Maria  Sant'  Alcione  knew  that  this  had  been 
her  intention  from  the  beginning — that  she  had 
never  meant  to  go ;  that  she  had  come  away  with 
the  definite  idea  of  never  returning  to  her  hus 
band. 

"Mother  of  God !"  exclaimed  the  nurse.  Lit 
tle  Angelo  had  come  up  to  his  mother,  and  pulled 
her  dress ;  she  pushed  him  away,  called  Carmela, 
delivered  her  a  rapid  injunction  to  keep  the  little 
brood  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  "What  does 
the  Eccellenza  mean?"  she  persisted,  and  glanced 
at  the  poor  room,  at  the  fire,  the  blackened  raft 
ers  and  the  ladder  to  the  attic.  "I  am  afraid  the 
Eccellenza  could  not  be  happy  in  Le  Baize?" 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  touched  Maria  Sant' 
Alcione's  lips. 

"No,  you  dear  thing,  don't  worry !  I  have  not 
come  to  stay  in  Le  Baize!  I -have  no  plans  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do." 

The  other  ventured  timidly : 

"And  the  Conte?" 

216 


THE    MIRACLE    OF    HEALING 

"He  will  do  very  well,"  she  replied. 

And  the  nurse  murmured:  "The  poor  conte, 
he  loved  little  Sandro  very  much  indeed." 

The  snow  fell  in  a  steady  pearl-like  curtain 
around  the  town,  between  the  world  and  Maria 
Sant'  Alcione.  This  was  the  second  day  since 
she  had  bidden  Delia  Gandara  good-by.  To 
morrow,  come  what  would,  she  would  venture 
down. 

"Does  it  often  snow  like  this  ?" 

"Oh,  often,  Eccellenza." 

"When  will  the  snow  be  over,  do  you  think  ?" 

"Eccellenza,  that  is  in  the  hand  of  God." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  in  a  day,  or  a  week,  or  a  month, 
Maria  Goanelli?" 

"A  week  sometimes,"  responded  the  other 
placidly.  "And  after  the  storm  the  crystals  are 
as  beautiful  as  glass." 

A  week?    She  would  die  here  in  a  week!    A 
week  of  snow  shut  in  here  with  these  peasants ! 
"I  shall  certainly  go  away,"  she  consoled  herself, 
"certainly  start  to-morrow,  snow  or  no  snow." 
217 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Eccellenza,"  ventured  the  peasant  woman, 
"speaking  of  miracles,  shall  I  tell  you  of  a  won 
derful  miracle  wrought  here  in  Le  Baize  last 
summer  ?" 

"If  you  like,  do." 

"It  was  the  mayor's  pig,  Eccellenza,  that  had 
the  distemper  .  .  ."  began  Maria  Goanelli,  and 
her  mistress,  half  closing  her  eyes,  partly  heard, 
and  wholly  saw  the  pathway  down  the  mountain 
side  to  Sandolo,  a  cruel  distance  between  herself 
and  Delia  Gandara. 

Heavens,  what  if  he  should  come  to  harm  in 
those  three  days!  Dreadful  things  happen  all 
the  time.  Sudden  accidents,  sudden  death.  Why 
did  she  come  away  so  madly  and  determinedly? 
Why  was  she  so  puritan  that  she  could  not  take 
the  great  gift  that  nature  offered  her  ?  .  .  . 

"And  the  mayor,"  Maria  Goanelli  was  say 
ing,  "carried  the  pig  on  his  own  back  up  the 
mountainside.  It  was  hot  and  the  pig  squealed, 
and  the  mayor  puffed  like  an  engine.  Oh,  it 
was  a  beautiful  sight,  Eccellenza!" 
218 


.  .  .  What  indeed  if  she  should  be  forced  to 
remain  here  for  a  week  and  he  should  start  to 
come  in  the  storm  and  be  lost  in  the  snow !  She 
could  hear  his  voice:  "Anima  mia.  Innamorata 
mia!"  Well,  he  was  her  soul,  that  she  knew: 
the  life  and  breath  of  her  now!  There  would 
never  be  anything  else  but  him  for  her  to  the 
end,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  had  never 
been  anything  else  from  the  beginning,  that  she 
had  been  going  to  him  daily,  answering  that 
vital  appealing  command :  "Come,  come !"  He 
had  said:  "Think  of  happy  Savignono  em 
braced  by  the  Tiber,  when  you  are  in  the  snows." 
She  left  her  seat  on  the  box,  threw  off  her  shawl. 
Her  charming  figure  in  the  blouse  and  short 
skirt  was  girlishly  young.  She  was  slender  by 
the  side  of  the  other  woman,  who,  as  the  contessa 
stood,  rose  as  well. 

"Come,  let  us  go  out,  Maria  Goanelli,  let  us 
go  out." 

"Mamma  mia,  I  dare  not  open  the  door.    The 
wind  would  knock  us  down." 
219 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

The  guest  went  to  the  door  and  wiped  off  the 
mist. 

"Patience,  patience,"  urged  her  companion, 
"the  weather  is  too  bad.  And,"  she  said  re 
proachfully,  "the  Eccellenza  didn't  hear  the  end 
of  the  pig  story." 

Maria  Sant'  Alcione  laughed  ana  ran  her 
white  hands  through  her  hair,  sighed,  and  re 
turned  vanquished  to  her  box  by  the  fire. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,  I  will  listen !  _  But  call  the 
children  to  the  fire:  they  are  frozen  in  the  cor 
ner.  Come,  Carmela,  and  the  babies,  come!"  she 
called  gaily,  "come  and  hear  the  end  of  the  pig !" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ON    THE    FOURTH    DAY 

THE  contessa  told  the  children  tales  and 
heard  tales  old  and  new,  familiar  since 
nursery  days  at  Naples,  when  she  had  laughed 
to  see  her  baby  laugh.  Beyond  control,  at  the 
limit  of  her  patience  at  the  end  of  the  third  day, 
wrapped  in  one  of  Maria  Goanelli's  capes,  she 
wrestled  with  the  door  against  which  the  snow 
had  heaped,  heavy  and  forbidding,  and  strug 
gled  to  the  shed  where  Gemma,  snug  and  sound, 
her  long  ears  stiff  and  straight,  peered  at  her 
lady.  A  friendly  neighbor  had  fed  Giulia  Goa 
nelli's  cattle  in  the  master's  absence  and  Maria 
met  the  fellow  at  the  door  of  the  shed. 

"Will  it  clear  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  Eccellenza." 

"And  the  paths?" 

The  man  laughed. 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"It  will  be  new  cheese.  Who  cuts  through 
cuts  first." 

"If  you  will  take  me  to  Sandolo  I  will  give 
you  twenty-five  lira." 

"That's  too  much,"  said  the  man  tranquilly, 
"half  of  it  would  pay  me  if  one  could  find  the 
way." 

"I  will  give  it  gladly  if  you  will  help  me  to 
find  the  way." 

The  bargain  was  struck.  They  were  to  start 
early  the  next  morning  and  the  rest  of  the  time 
passed,  one  fashion  or  another.  She  was  almost 
happy,  she  sang  songs  for  the  baby  who  had  lost 
its  look  of  mystery  and  was  only  a  black-eyed 
little  thing  on  the  way  to  health.  That  night, 
used  now  to  the  cold,  the  contessa  slept  heavily 
and  awakened  as  the  sunlight  struck  her  eyelids. 
Outside  the  snow  was  blue  in  the  light,  the  pines 
black  and  mysterious.  The  trees  sparkled  and 
the  radiance  seemed  to  reflect  from  her  heart. 

"I  am  going  to  him,"  she  said  aloud  at  the 
window,  "I  am  going  to  him  to-day." 
222 


ON    THE    FOURTH    DAY 

She  was  all  ready  to  start  when  she  came 
down-stairs. 

"Madonna  mia!"  exclaimed  Maria  Goanelli, 
horrified. 

"Yes,  I  am  going,"  said  the  contessa  joyously. 
"It's  useless  to  try  to  keep  me:  I  shall  find  my 
way." 

"The  Eccellenza  will  be  buried  in  the  snows. 
For  the  love  of  God!  Not  a  man  in  Le  Baize 
would  venture  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  he  will,"  laughed  her  mistress,  "he  is 
ready  out  there,  with  the  donkey." 

From  the  window  Maria  Goanelli  saw  her  next- 
door  neighbor,  muffled  up  to  his  chin,  standing  at 
the  ass's  head,  his  staff  in  hand. 

The  contessa  laughed  at  expostulations  and 
fears.  She  would  have  laughed  at  death  itself 
to-day !  Nothing  could  make  her  sad  or  even 
thoughtful.  Her  brain,  her  pulses,  her  heart, 
all  sang  and  laughed ;  the  sunlight,  the  blue  sky, 
even  the  danger  said:  "I  am  going  to  him!" 
She  put  her  arms  around  Maria  Goanelli. 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Kiss  me  good-by.  You  were  kind  to  me  here 
in  the  snow."  And  she  kissed  the  nurse  on  both 
of  her  hard  brilliant  cheeks. 

"Addio,  addio,  bambini,  addio!" 

Maria  Goanelli,  who  seemed  dazed  and  trou 
bled,  held  her  mistress  back  and  murmured  in  a 
low  tone: 

"Eccellenza,  if  you  go  with  Cecco  Bambelli,  I 
shall  not  be  afraid.  He  is  a  safe  guide, 
but  .  .  ."  she  paused  .  .  .  "back  there  in  Na 
ples  .  .  .?" 

"Well,  Maria,  what  then?" 

"The  Eccellenza  will  go  back  to  Naples  ?"  A 
cloud  crossed  her  face.  "I  shall  pray  night  and 
day  for  the  Eccellenza." 

The  children  fluttered  out  on  the  porch  like 
birds  in  the  snow.  Cecco  lifted  the  contessa 
on  the  donkey.  She  did  not  suggest  the  Ma 
donna  to  either  of  the  peasants.  She  was  only  a 
beautiful  ardent  woman. 

"The  Madonna  go  with  you,"  murmured  the 
servant,  "the  Madonna  give  you — " 


ON    THE    FOURTH    DAY 

She  did  not  finish  her  wish,  but  the  women 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes:  the  lady's  were 
deep  as  the  heavens,  the  peasant's  soft  and  dark, 
clouded  with  tears. 

"Addio,  cara  Maria,  addio,"  murmured  the 
Contessa  Sant'  Alcione. 


The  donkey  plunged  up  to  her  knees  in  snow 
and  pulled  out  again.  Cecco  Bambelli  at  her 
head  encouraged  her.  Maria  scarcely  saw  or 
cared  how  the  beast  struggled  and  labored:  she 
had  no  fear,  her  face  was  set  toward  Sandolo. 
She  would  surely  get  there,  but  it  would  take 
time :  that  she  must  endure.  The  exhilaration  of 
the  air,  its  cold  pure  wine,  the  sparkle  of  the 
snow,  the  glory  of  the  blue  heavens,  made  an  en 
chanted  winter  world.  She  shut  her  eyes,  bowed 
her  head,  and  the  pine  and  cedar  breath,  the  in 
cense  of  the  forest,  came  deliciously  to  her  as  she 
entered  the  wood.  They  crossed  the  iron  bridge 
with  its  crucifix.  There  was  not  a  soul  to  see  her 
225 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

go,  at  the  old  church  there  was  neither  wedding 
nor  funeral,  only  the  festival  of  the  storm,  the 
snow,  the  gleaming  trees ;  the  bridal  wreaths  in 
the  branches,  the  shroud  under  foot. 

"The  donkey  knows  her  way,  Eccellenza,  she 
is  a  wonderful  beast,"  Cecco  Bambclli  said  after 
they  had  been  journeying  a  little  time. 

She  did  not  answer  him.  She  knew  they  would 
find  their  way,  and  that  nothing  could  hinder  it ; 
the  path  was  straight.  At  the  thought  of  seeing 
Delia  Gandara,  her  cheeks  grew  hot,  her  breath 
nearly  suffocated  her,  her  hands  trembled  on  the 
lines  she  held.  Under  foot  the  snow  and  ice 
melted  somewhat  as  the  hot  sun  penetrated,  above 
her  head  an  eagle  circled  and  cried.  There  was 
nothing  sacred  about  this  journey.  She  felt  like 
a  pagan  queen  riding"  triumphantly  to  her  king 
dom.  They  had  been  steadily  traveling  two 
hours  when  she  made  her  guide  halt  to  give  him 
the  bread  and  wine  Maria  Goanelli  had  prepared. 
For  her  part  she  could  not  eat.  This  was  not 
the  fast  she  longed  to  break. 
226 


Without   speaking  he   took   her   in   his   arms. 


ON    THE    FOURTH    DAY 

They  moved  on  and  on,  down  and  down,  until 
at  midday  the  sun  grew  hot  and  warmed  them 
through  the  openings  in  the  trees.  She  thought 
exultantly :  "He  did  not  come  for  me.  He  did 
not  come.  The  three  days  are  up.  This  is  the 
fourth  day." 

The  donkey  stopped  suddenly,  her  ears  pointed 
forward,  and  Cecco  Bambelli  called  through  the 
trees : 

"Who  is  there?" 

She  heard  the  crunching  of  the  snow,  the  fall 
of  pebbles.  They  stopped  on  the  edge  of  a 
brook  that  gurgled  under  the  ice.  She  saw  Delia 
Gandara  brush  the  boughs  back  and  leap  the 
brook.  He  never  glanced  at  her.  Abruptly  he 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew  out  some 
money. 

"Here,"  he  said  harshly  to  Cecco  Bambelli, 
"take  this  and  go  back  to  Le  Baize." 

"I  promised  him  a  piece  of  gold,"  she  hurried, 
and  could  scarcely  find  her  trembling  voice. 

"He  has  two :  let  him  go,"  Delia  Gandara  said, 
OT 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

and  stood  immovable  until  the  man  retraced  his 
footprints  in  the  snow  and  his  figure  was  lost. 
Then  Delia  Gandara  came  to  her  and  without 
speaking  took  her  in  his  arms,  as  she  sat  on  the 
white  ass,  and  lifted  her  to  him  and  held  her  as 
though  he  would  meet  her  flesh  with  his,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  eyes  and  brows  and  lips  many 
times  .  .  .  kissed  her  on  the  blue  eyes  that  were 
the  color  of  the  Madonna's ;  on  the  brow  which 
the  peasants  had  thought  sublime;  on  the  lips 
that  they  had  prayed  would  bless  them. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

QUESTION    AND    ANSWER 

MANY  hours  later  they  came  out  on  the 
gnome-like  hillocks  whose  golden  points 
undulated  like  waves  of  a  molten  sea.  Pink  and 
red  bracken  spread  along  the  clay  and  from  a 
hut  in  the  valley  fluttered  a  thin  flag  of  smoke 
to  welcome  them.  Delia  Gandara  said: 

"You  are  cold  and  hungry,  love.  See,  a  fairy 
has  come  to  minister  to  you — if  one  could  call 
Tullia  a  fairy !" 

He  walked  by  the  side  of  Maria,  his  arm 
around  her.  They  had  traveled  alone  together 
for  four  hours,  and  if  she  felt  either  cold  or  hun 
gry  she  was  unconscious  of  the  fact.  On  a  hil 
lock  a  little  beyond,  sharply  outlined,  stood  the 
dark  figure  of  a  peasant  girl  against  the  bril 
liant  afternoon  light.  A  russet  cape  fell  around 
229 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

her,  her  skirt  was  brown  as  the  hillside,  and  in 
both  hands  she  held  a  little  brazier  to  warm  her 
icy  fingers.  Her  herd  of  goats  shook  their  tink 
ling  bells  here  and  there  among  the  hillocks.  At 
her  feet  was  a  mother  goat  and  her  kids. 

"Kola,  Tullia  Ferrati,  have  you  a  cup,  ragaz- 
za?  Will  you  milk  for  the  Eccellenza?" 

J.iaria  said: 

'  Help  me  down ;  I  want  to  touch  foot  to  the 
ground." 

He  lifted  her  down,  and  as  he  did  so,  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  she  said  in  her  low  rich  voice: 

"Do  you  know,  this  is  the  first  time  I  have 
touched  the  earth  since  I  have  let  myself  love 
you  ?  The  earth  has  seemed  a  dreadful  place  be 
fore.  Now  it  is  sacred." 

He  kissed  her  under  the  eyes  of  the  goatherd, 
who  had  put  her  brazier  down  and  was  milking 
the  goat.  When  Maria  had  drunk  and  forced 
Delia  Gandara  to  do  the  same,  they  went  on  foot, 
leading  Gemma  over  the  hills,  but  before  they 
reached  the  road,  the  donkey  suddenly  stood  still 
230 


QUESTION    AND    ANSWER 

and  began  to  bray  aloud.  From  behind  a  hillock 
a  sorry-looking  shamefaced  object  made  his  ap 
pearance.  It  was  Adamo.  He  gesticulated  ap- 
pealingly  to  Maria  Sant'  Alcione.  As  he  per 
ceived  him,  Delia  Gandara  wondered  for  the  first 
time  why  he  had  not  been  with  the  contessa. 

"Where  do  you  come  from,  worthlessness  ? 
Speak !"  he  thundered.  "How  is  it  you  did  not 
accompany  the  lady  from  Le  Baize?" 

"Hush !"  Maria  put  her  hand  on  Delia  Gan- 
dara's  arm.  "I  did  not  need  him  in  Le  Baize.  I 
sent  him  back.  There  was  no  room  for  another 
at  the  inn." 

Delia  Gandara  fixed  his  stern  eyes  on  the  peas 
ant,  who  had  ventured  to  approach  his  beloved 
Gemma  and  stood  timidly  fingering  the  ass's 
nose  and  ears. 

"Look  here,"  thundered  Delia  Gandara  signifi 
cantly,  "if  you  have  deserted  your  post,  my 
good  Adamo — : 

"Pity,  Eccellenze,"  whined  the  man,  "I  see 
that  I  was  wrong,  I  see." 
231 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"See  what,  fool,  blockhead?  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"I  thought  the  Eccellenza  was  the  Madonna — 
that  it  was  a  miracle,  and  I  was  afraid." 

"I  beseech  of  you,"  prayed  Maria,  "let  us  go 
on." 

Ignoring  her  plea,  Delia  Gandara  said  impa 
tiently  : 

"Well,  so  you  thought  the  Eccellenza  was  the 
Madonna,  did  you,  dolt?" 

"It  was  very  foolish,  Signore  dottore.  I  see 
she  is  only  a  beautiful  lady."  Adamo  blushed 
and  stammered,  and  Maria  urged  her  companion 
on. 

When  they  reached  the  gate  of  Pieve  toward 
evening  it  was  to  her  as  though  they  had  driven 
out  of  paradise  into  gray  reality.  Before  they 
reached  the  gate,  she  said: 

"Stop  here.  Before  we  go  into  the  town,  tell 
me  again — are  you  sure  that  you  have  never 
loved  any  one  but  me  in  all  your  life?" 

It  was  the  question  of  a  girl  to  a  young  lover. 
232 


QUESTION    AND    ANSWER 

"Never.  But  I  loved  you  from  the  moment  I 
saw  you  under  the  arch,  Maria.  And  you?"  He 
searched  her  eyes  whose  blue  had  paled  with  pas 
sion  that  lighted  them.  She  forgot  that  she  had 
ever  thought  that  she  loved  her  husband  .  .  . 
had  thought  she  still  loved  him  not  ten  months 
ago. 

"I  loved  you  when  I  saw  your  picture  in  Na 
ples,"  she  said,  "your  eyes  then  called  me :  'Come, 
come' !" 

"They  say  it  now,"  he  answered.  "Eyes,  lips, 
heart,  all  of  me,  Maria." 

They  held  each  other  in  the  open  road  beneath 
the  evening  sky  where  the  first  stars  shone,  and 
as  he  kissed  her,  above  from  Sant'  Angelo  came 
the  ringing  of  the  unblemished  bell.  It  tolled 
long  and  slowly,  deep  and  mellow. 

"Sandro,"  she  murmured,  "Sandro,  listen !  It 
is  ringing  for  the  dead." 

"Some  brother,"  he  replied  easily.  "They 
must  die,  innamorata :  even  holy  men  must  die." 

"And  the  wicked  like  us,  Sandro?" 
233 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Hush!"  he  commanded  sternly,  "don't  pro 
fane  our  love,  Maria." 

They  drove  on  toward  the  town,  but  at  the 
knowledge  that  he  must  part  from  her  here,  Delia 
Gandara  leaned  toward  her  making  her  repeat 
her  promise.  So  absorbed  was  he  that  he  did  not 
see  at  the  gate-side  two  small  figures  hand  in  hand 
standing  waiting  to  welcome  a  home-comer.  As 
the  wheels  clattered  under  the  gate  and  over  the 
cobbles  the  little  voices  rose: 

"See,  see !    Armando  and  Lilli !" 

As  they  passed  by,  Maria  Sant'  Alcione  ex 
claimed  : 

"Oh,  your  little  children !" 

But  he  did  not  stop.  At  the  door  of  the  inn 
he  bade  her  good  night,  and  with  the  deep  som- 
berness  that  she  knew  indicated  the  depths  of  his 
passion,  he  said: 

"You  are  my  children,  my  family,  my  wife 
and  my  life,  Maria !" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    WISDOM    OF    AGE 

SHE  passed  through  the  doorway  of  the  inn, 
and  heard  the  gray  gentle  doves  with  their 
young  broods  coo  in  the  eaves.  Up-stairs,  in  the 
room  she  had  left  five  days  before,  she  undid  her 
things  and  her  hands  trembled.  Cold  winds,  the 
breath  of  mountain  pinnacles,  had  whipped  color 
into  her  smooth  cheeks,  and  love  had  whipped 
ecstasy  through  her  body.  She  quivered  and 
glowed.  The  room  was  close  and  stuffy  after 
the  mountain  air,  and  as  she  had  done  before  in 
Borgo  San  Sepolcro,  she  gazed  steadily  into  her 
mirror,  mechanically  putting  her  hair  in  order, 
and  the  vigorous  beauty  she  saw  there  made  her 
pause.  She  passed  her  hand  lightly  over  the 
mirror  and  smiled: 

285 


"I  am  glad  I  am  like  this !  It  will  give  him 
pleasure.  I  will  keep  like  this  for  him." 

There  was  nothing  spiritual  in  the  loveliness 
reflected  here,  but  there  was  a  radiant  triumph, 
a  material  glory. 

"It  is  happiness,"  she  murmured,  "how  happy 
I  look,  how  happy  he  looks!  Ah,  Sandro,  San- 
dro,  the  new  Sandro !" 

After  turning  away  from  the  mirror  she  be 
gan  hastily  to  put  her  things  together  and  to 
pack  her  dressing-bag.  She  had  changed  her 
riding  clothes  for  her  street  dress,  her  tricorne 
for  the  hat  with  fur  and  roses;  she  put  on  her 
veil,  lifting  it  to  her  forehead,  took  her  gloves 
and  purse,  and  was  still — for  she  glanced  in  the 
mirror  again  over  her  shoulder — she  was  still 
radiant,  brilliant,  transformed  by  the  fire  that 
lights  the  hearthstones  of  the  world,  that  makes 
the  race  persist  for  good  or  evil,  for  decay  or 
resurrection.  "You  did  not  bury  your  beauty, 
Contessa,"  Faversham  had  said  to  her.  She 
glanced  about  the  room  where  she  should  not 
236 


THE    WISDOM    OF    AGE 

pass  another  night,  and  leaving  her  bags  to  be 
carried  by  Elena,  closed  the  door,  came  running 
down-stairs  singing.  Her  voice  startled  her; 
she  had  not  sung  aloud  in  years.  To  her  old 
hostess  she  said: 

"Elena,  I  am  going  to  Borgo  to-night.  The 
slgnore  dottore  says  that  Benvenuto  will  drive 
me  and  I  can  get  a  train  for  Arezzo." 

"But  the  Eccellenza  is  not  going  without  rest- 
ing?" 

"I  can  not  rest,  not  yet,  Elena.  I  can  not  rest 
here." 

Maria  did  not  think  that  her  little  room  so 
near  to  him  and  so  far  could  offer  her  repose. 
She  would  wait  in  the  parlor  to  see  the  slgnore 
dottore  who  had  gone  to  order  Benvenuto. 
Elena  considered  her  visitor.  Maria  saw  an  ex 
pression  on  the  old  creature's  fine  serene  counte 
nance  which  made  the  color  deepen  in  her  own 
cheeks.  She  saw  the  look  that  comes  across  the 
face  of  wise  age  deep  with  experience,  with  its 
knowledge  of  real  tragedies  and  real  romance, 
237 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

that  has  learned  by  heart  tales  written  in  flesh 
and  blood,  for  fifty  years. 

"You  have  served  me  well,  Elena,"  the  trav 
eler  opened  her  purse.  "I  wish  I  could  stay 
longer  with  you,  but  I  must  go"  (she  did  not  say 
go  home),  "I  must  go  on." 

"Ecco,"  the  old  woman  replied  quietly,  "so  it 
is  with  travelers,  Eccellenza."  Her  work-worn 
hands  were  clasped  over  her  apron,  her  cheeks 
and  brows  beaten  on  by  the  winds  of  the  north 
ern  countries.  Maria  realized  for  the  first  time 
that  the  woman  must  have  been  lovely  when 
young.  "No,  Eccellenza,  no,"  said  the  innkeep 
er,  refusing  the  money,  "I  often  take  care  of  the 
mayor's  friends,  a  thousand  thanks." 

The  contessa  laid  a  folded  note  on  the  table. 

"You  must  take  it,  Elena,"  she  said  firmly. 

The  old  woman  lifted  it  and  turned  it  between 
her  fingers. 

"I  will  give  it  to  the  padre  for  the  new  altar." 

"As  you  like,  Elena,  as  you  like." 

"I  knew  the  mayor,"  Elena  said  tranquilly, 
238 


"when  he  was  very  young.  He  lived  up  there  in 
the  little  room  you  had.  He  used  to  tramp  up 
and  down  the  floor  late  at  night.  I  knew  him 
when  he  came  back  later  to  Pieve  and  made  a 
great  sacrifice.  He  is  good,"  she  said  looking 
into  the  eyes  of  Maria  Sant'  Alcione,  "he  has  a 
good  heart." 

The  contessa  inclined  her  head.  She  heard  the 
bells  tinkle  on  Benvenuto's  horse  and  the  rattle 
of  the  wheels  of  the  little  victoria  over  the  stones, 
and  not  until  then  did  the  brutal  truth  that  she 
was  going  away  from  him  rush  in  full  force 
upon  her. 

"I  was  with  his  wife  when  Armando  was 
born,"  said  Elena,  "and  again  with  Lilli,  and 
then  she  died." 

"Elena,"  said  Maria,  "tell  some  one  to  fetch 
down  my  things." 

Benvenuto  thrust  his  head  in  at  the  door. 

"Scusi,  but  if  the  Eccellenza  wishes  to  catch 
the  train  at  Borgo  she  must  come." 

Elena  went  up-stairs.  Maria  looked  eagerly 
239 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

at  the  door.  He  should  be  here.  Delia  Gan- 
dara  should  have  been  there  ten  minutes  before. 
Her  heart  throbbing,  her  cheeks  already  pale, 
she  clasped  her  hands  and  waited,  crushing  down 
her  desire  to  weep  bitterly,  and  remained  immov 
able  by  the  table  where  not  three  weeks  before 
she  had  sat  and  talked  with  him  by  the  fire. 
Elena  fetched  down  the  bags  and  carried  them 
out  and  chatted  with  Benvenuto.  The  horse 
shook  his  irritating  little  bells. 

In  a  few  seconds  Delia  Gandara  came  running. 
He  entered  hatless,  as  pale  as  death.  He  came 
up  to  her,  took  her  in  his  arms,  strained  her  to 
him,  kissed  her  and  let  her  go.  She  felt  his  face 
cold  and  his  eyes  cold ;  after  murmuring  the  name 
she  had  grown  to  adore,  he  said  rapidly : 

"It  is  quite  understood,  Maria,  you  are  to  go 
to  Frascati's  and  wait  there  and  I  will  come,  I 
will  come." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  breathed,  clinging  to  him. 

"In  three  days." 

"Yes,  in  three  days." 

240 


Delia  Gandara  held  her  to  him,  gazed  at  her 
as  though  he  would  imprint  her  features  on  his 
soul: 

"Come,"  he  said  then  for  the  last  time,  "for 
you  must  leave  me." 

Maria  got  into  the  carriage  where  Elena  had 
bestowed  her  things ;  Benvenuto  mounted  to  his 
seat.  Maria's  blue  eyes  were  wide  with  the 
agony  of  parting,  and  with  the  fear  just  born  in 
her  that  she  should  never,  never  see  him  again. 
She  leaned  toward  him,  oblivious  of  Elena,  and 
the  peasant. 

"You  are  going  away!"  he  said  between  his 
set  lips. 

"But  you  are  coming  to  me  in  three  days  !" 

In  the  face  of  them  all,  he  could  do  no  more 
than  say  to  her,  his  eyes  on  her : 

"  You  are  my  family,  my  hearthstone,  my  chil 
dren,  my  life!" 

She  held  out  both  her  hands,  he  saw  the  tears 
stream  over  her  face. 

"Go,"  she  said,  "beloved,  addio" 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

She  drove  out  of  the  town,  turned  the  curve, 
then  she  bent  forward,  sank  her  face  in  her 
hands,  bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A    PASSIONATE    PILGRIM 

AT  Frascati  Maria  asked  for  a  suite  of 
rooms,  and  the  proprietor  of  the  reno 
vated  hotel,  who  stared  at  her  in  surprise,  has 
tily  ordered  a  bedroom  transformed  for  the  guest 
into  a  parlor.  Meanwhile  she  waited  for  her  lug 
gage  in  the  apartment  he  showed  her.  Through 
the  open  window  in  the  distance  over  Rome  she 
saw  the  mist  hang,  shot  through  with  sun 
light.  Sweet  garden  smells,  earth  and  flower 
scents  came  to  her  on  the  caressing  tender  air, 
unlike  the  rude  tang  of  the  mountain  country. 
From  a  tree  close  by  an  orchard  thrush  sang  as 
if  to  break  his  heart.  "Pellegrina  rondinella" 
— the  lines  of  the  school-room  verse  she  had 
learned  long  ago  when  she  first  began  her  studies 
of  Italian,  came  to  her  and  she  murmured  them 
243 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

aloud:  "Pilgrim  bird!"  She  was  a  pilgrim,  a 
real  one,  and  had  completed  her  first  pilgrimage. 
From  Naples  to  Le  Baize,  then  to  Frascati.  It 
had  not  proved  to  be  the  kind  of  pilgrimage 
Father  Faversham  and  she  planned  together :  it 
had  not  been  the  spiritual  retreat,  the  solitary 
journey  she  had  imagined. 

"Go  and  find  the  immaculate  source  of  a  great 
river,  my  child:  it  will  be  a  beautiful  pilgrim 
age."  She  had  forgotten  that  the  source  of  the 
Tiber  was  at  Le  Baize,  she  had  only  thought  of 
the  River  of  Love  and  its  relentless  welling,  its 
eternal  outpouring.  She  left  the  window  to  sit 
and  listen  to  the  bird  in  the  peach-tree  while  he 
sang  as  though  his  song  would  rend  his  throat. 

She  could  think  a  little  more  tranquilly  than 
on  her  rapid  journey"  from  Pieve.  Hitherto  she 
had  been  as  one  laid  upon  by  enchantment,  una 
ble  to  meditate  or  reflect,  able  only  to  feel  and  to 
remember.  She  might  have  had  fever:  no  food 
had  passed  her  lips  and  her  body  felt  parched 
and  dry,  as  her  being  was  parched  and  unsatis- 
244 


A    PASSIONATE    PILGRIM 

fied.  Every  mile  that  took  her  from  Delia  Gan- 
dara,  from  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  dearness 
of  his  presence,  the  touch  of  his  caress,  was  a 
living  pain,  a  palpitating  suffering.  "If  I  had 
been  married  to  him  all  my  life,"  she  said  over 
and  over,  "I  could  not  be  more  wedded  to  him." 
Every  image  his  fancy  had  evoked  returned  with 
fresh  charm  to  her,  with  fresh  seduction,  and  if 
spirits  could  blend  in  absence  hers  blent  with  his, 
melted  with  his,  until  she  quivered  like  a  harp. 
She  had  thus  far  made  her  lonely  passionate  pil 
grimage  like  a  runner  obliged  on  pain  of  death 
to  reach  a  point  before  nightfall,  and  now  she 
rested,  sank  back  in  her  comfortable  chair,  her 
head  against  the  cushions,  her  eyes  blue  under 
their  closed  lids. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  started  out  a 
sense  of  exhaustion  overcame  her.  On  her  ar 
rival  at  Lc  Baize  after  her  stormy  climb,  she  had 
been  tired,  worn  out,  healthily  so:  now  she  was 
exhausted.  She  gave  five  lira  to  the  maid  who 
came  when  she  rang,  made  the  girl  unpack  the 
245 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

bags  and  prepare  the  bed  and  bath.  The  gentle 
ministrations  of  the  little  maid,  the  sound  of  run 
ning  water  into  the  deep  marble  basin,  a  por 
phyry  bath  raped  from  the  ruins  of  an  antique 
villa,  soothed  her,  and  she  dozed  until  the  maid 
called  her.  She  bathed  with  delight,  remained 
long  in  the  perfumed  water,  then  crept  grate 
fully  into  bed,  and  with  the  spring  air  blowing 
through  the  open  window,  slept. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SEVENTY    TIMES    SEVEN 

WHEN  she  awakened  it  was  dark:  the 
window  framed  a  square  of  blue 
where  one  or  two  stars  shone.  In  the  peach-tree 
the  thrush  had  long  ceased  to  sing,  and  in  his 
stead  a  nightingale  from  the  oleander  sang  as  if 
to  break  his  heart. 

She  had  slept  for  five  hours,  then  rose,  open 
ing  the  door  into  her  sitting-room,  and  found  it 
ready.  The  moonlight  along  the  floor  lay  warm 
as  sunset.  Reluctant  to  look  at  beauty  alone  she 
turned  on  a  light,  threw  on  her  dressing-gown 
and  rang  for  supper.  When  it  was  served  she 
smiled  at  the  conventional  food  and  service,  for 
she  had  become  a  barbarian,  used  to  primitive 
and  simple  things,  and  the  formal  luxury  of 
even  this  unpretentious  house  was  strange. 
247 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

Later  she  paced  the  room  with  trained  eye,  to  see 
how  she  could  make  it  beautiful.  To-morrow 
there  should  be  flowers  everywhere,  and  she 
would  discover  some  old  bits  of  china  and  pot 
tery,  some  pieces  of  old  brocade  in  Frascati. 
After  to-morrow  there  would  be  two  days.  Re 
freshed  and  rested  as  she  had  not  been  refreshed, 
away  from  the  impression  and  dominating  power 
of  his  presence  in  this  stage  between  Pieve  and 
her  future,  she  had  time  to  take  breath  and  rest. 
She  had  shut  her  eyes  and  gone  on  blindly, 
conscious  that  her  outstretched  hand  as  she 
groped  touched  him  at  every  turn.  The  fever, 
the  ecstasy,  the  rush  of  her  feelings  had  carried 
her  on  and  she  had  not  let  herself  think.  The 
struggle  of  the  days  before,  the  principles  of  her 
life,  had  made  no  apparent  impression  upon  her. 
Indeed  the  woman's  heart  once  set  free,  leaped  to 
her  love,  more  spontaneously  from  the  long  re 
straint.  Delia  Gandara  made  a  picture  that  her 
thoughts  quickly  found  and  dwelt  on  with 
content.  With  the  beauty  of  Pieve  and  its  coun- 
248 


SEVENTY    TIMES    SEVEN 

try  around  him,  his  figure  was  romantic,  tender. 
Maria  seemed  to  see  him  coming  to  her  as  she 
mused,  until  the  horizon  was  filled  with  him,  he 
grew  colossal,  overpowering  .  .  .  She  flushed  as 
she  sat  and  dreamed,  then  mechanically  touched 
the  electric  button,  turned  out  the  light,  let  the 
moon  stream  in  upon  her,  and  so  sat  in  the 
spring  night  air,  leaning  upon  her  hands. 

Slowly,  matter-of-fact  things  one  by  one  be 
gan  to  claim  place  in  her  mind.  Delia  Gandara 
would  leave  Pieve  for  ever,  the  old  grandmother 
would  bring  up  his  children.  She  could  not  take 
them.  She  wanted  no  more  children  in  her  life! 
Stolidly,  cheerfully,  hardily,  honestly,  the  mat 
ter-of-fact  things  began  to  take  their  places  in 
her  sensuous  idealistic  dream.  Delia  Gandara's 
future  was  in  her  hands  now.  He  would  leave 
Pieve  for  ever.  He  would  renounce  his  patients 
and  his  sick  and  his  poor,  his  little  humble 
family,  his  reputation  that  reached  to  Le  Baize 
as  being  a  noble,  honorable,  self-sacrificing 
brother  of  men.  She  would  be  alone  to  bring  him 
249 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

happiness,  she  must  stand  to  him  in  place  of 
everything  he  had  left.  "I  want  you  to  be  sacred 
for  me  alone." 

She  was  going  to  be  that:  she  had  made  her 
choice. 

His  voice  as  he  had  appealed  to  her  in  the 
road  before  they  entered  Pieve  rang  through  her 
now,  but  she  recalled,  too,  the  other  voice: 

"But  those  were  sacred  women,  Father  Faver- 
sham." 

"And  are  you  not  sacred?" 

Oh,  no,  no! 

She  stirred  where  she  sat  and  the  moonlight 
jfell  upon  her  knees  like  a  veil. 

If  she  had  not  gone  to  Pieve,  he  would  have 
flown  to  Rome  this  year;  he  had  told  her  this, 
and  some  other  woman  would  have  captured  him : 
or,  as  he  had  told  her,  he  would  have  gone  into 
the  Brotherhood  of  Sant'  Angelo,  unable  longer 
to  endure  his  state. 

Poor    Father    Faversham!    She    pitied    the 
priest  who  could  not  dream  the  bliss  she  knew ! 
250 


SEVENTY    TIMES    SEVEN 

As  Maria  mused  there  came  vividly  before  her 
the  face  of  the  priest  as  they  stood  in  San  Mar- 
cello,  and  there  was  nothing  pitiable  in  the  flash 
ing  eyes,  in  his  serene  expression  or  in  his  dig 
nity. 

.  .  .  But  those  'were  sacred  women,  Father 
Faversham. 

.  .  .  And  are  not  you? 

She  had  never  been  happy,  never  until  now. 
It  could  not  mean  that  she  was  losing  her  immor 
tal  soul,  or  that  the  bliss  with  a  beloved  being, 
this  union,  meant  that  she  was  selling  her  salva 
tion! 

Without  him  she  could  not  fancy  existing  any 
more.  Her  husband  cared  so  little  for  her,  she 
was  doing  him  no  wrong.  What  wrong  in  the 
sight  of  God  could  be  done  to  a  man  who  broke 
every  law  of  the  church  and  every  law  of  wedded 
life?  She  had  made  every  honest  effort  to  re 
gain  him,  to  remain  faithful,  she  had  tried  to  be 
a  good  and  dutiful  wife,  and  he  had  not  appre 
ciated  her.  If  he  had  once  earnestly  turned  to 
251 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

her,   not   even   this    great   passion   would  have 
caused  her  to  break  her  marriage  vows. 

He  had  written  her  but  once  during  the  weeks 
she  had  been  gone,  a  letter  which  she  had  not 
opened.  She  had  found  it  waiting  for  her  in 
Pieve  and  had  fetched  it,  still  sealed,  in  her 
dressing-bag. 

She  began  to  feel  the  night's  chill.  She 
wrapped  her  traveling-cloak  about  her  and  be 
gan  to  walk  slowly  to  and  fro  in  the  room.  The 
nightingale's  song  without  in  the  oleander  sad 
dened  her. 

The  incense  of  the  sweet  melancholy  music,  the 
lovely  lonely  song,  sweetest  when  the  world  is 
sleeping,  the  night  itself  and  the  perfumed  air, 
struck  her  as  unutterably  sad.  One  should  never 
enjoy  beauty  alone7-  She  shut  the  window,  drew 
the  curtain,  turned  on  the  ugly  commonplace 
light,  and,  because  it  was  a  disagreeable  thing 
and  she  wanted  to  get  the  duty  done,  she  took 
her  husband's  letter  from  her  dressing-bag  and 
opened  it : 

252 


"Dearest  Maria: 

"You  have  been  gone  three  weeks.  It  seems 
a  thousand  years.  If  I  didn't  know  your  beauti 
ful  character,  I  should  think  you  had  gone  away 
for  ever.  I'm  sometimes  afraid  that  this  is  so. 

"But  no,  that  couldn't  be !  I  know  you  are  at 
Le  Baize  with  good  Maria  Goanelli,  and  you 
are  sad  with  her,  thinking  of  darling  Sandro. 
Maria,  do  you  know  I  am  glad  you  went  away. 
I  needed  it.  Since  you  went,  everything  has  been 
different.  I  see  everything  in  a  new  light.  It 
is  as  though  you  had  been  standing  in  my  light, 
and  had  gone.  The  day  after  you  left  I  sent 
every  one  out  of  the  house  and  closed  it.  Naples 
became  unendurable  to  me.  I  went  to  Rome  and 
came  back.  Maria,  I  have  not  seen  a  single  soul 
since  you  left.  77  Think  of  it !  No  one  except 
ing  Padre  Moravesto.  I  confessed,  took  com 
munion  and  went  into  a  retreat.  Think  of  it! 
Maria,  I  feel  clean  as  a  child!  Ah,  Maria,  that 
is  what  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about.  If  only 
we  had  a  little  child!  Not  a  Sandro  of  course, 
but  another  sweet  child.  It  would  save  me, 
Maria,  I  know  it  would.  I  should  be  a  new  man. 
My  brother  Francesco  is  very  ill.  They  say  he 

253 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

will  not  recover.  When  my  brother  dies  I  shall 
be  the  last  of  the  line.  If  Sandro  had  lived  he 
would  have  been  the  Duca  de  Sant'  Alcione. 
There  will  be  nobody  now  to  inherit,  and  the 
name  will  die.  I  feel  old  and  discouraged,  Maria. 
When  I  think  perhaps  you  have  left  me  for  ever 
I  could  die  of  misery.  Be  pitiful,  Maria,  be 
merciful  like  the  name  you  bear.  Forgive  me 
once  again.  I  am  ashamed  to  ask  it  of  you,  but 
I  feel  so  new-born,  so  sure  of  myself.  I  pray 
you  to  come  soon.  I  will  be  in  Rome  to  meet  you 
whenever  you  say.  My  wife!  Ah,  Maria,  it 
seems  as  if  even  now,  I  hear  in  the  empty  rooms 
the  sound  of  a  baby's  voice.  My  eyes  are  full  of 
tears.  Come  back  to  me,  Maria.  I  was  a  good 
father ;  you  said  so  often.  And  you  were  a 
divine  mother  ...  a  sacred  mother.  Forgive  the 
father  of  your  son. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    SHADOW    OF    ROME 

THE  woman  standing  at  the  table  in  the 
room  which  she  had  taken  for  the  meet 
ing  with  her  lover,  read  the  letter  slowly,  turned 
it  over  and  read  it  again.  She  couldn't  believe  it 
was  from  her  husband.  There  was  nothing  in  it 
to  suggest  Gigi  except  the  signature.  It  sounded 
as  though  his  spirit  had  suddenly  been  made 
whole.  There  was  a  coherency  in  the  words,  a 
sincerity.  Terrible  to  her  as  it  was,  she  was 
obliged  to  confess  that  it  sounded  real:  the  need 
seemed  real,  the  plea  seemed  real,  the  words  rang 
true. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  aloud,  "how  terrible!  how 
cruel !  How  dreadful  for  it  to  come  to  me  now !" 

She  shuddered,  gave  a  little  gasping  cry,  and 
sank  on  her  knees  before  the  big  chair,  burying 
255 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

her  face  in  her  hands.  After  a  long  time,  when 
she  had  no  more  tears  to  weep,  sentient  but  very 
tired,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  as  it  were  heard 
the  great  silence  around  her.  She  opened  the 
window  into  the  garden,  redolent  and  fragrant 
with  blossoms  and  flowers.  The  moonlight  had 
slowly  withdrawn  its  veil,  the  nightingale  had 
stopped  singing  with  the  waning  moon,  and  in 
the  distance,  dark  against  the  horizon,  she  could 
see  the  shadow  that  was  Rome. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


THE  driver  of  the  carriage  that  wound  its 
way  from  Frascati  to  Albano  had  re 
ceived  instructions  from  the  signora  to  go  slow 
ly.    Through  the  warm  morning  under  a  sky  of 
deepest  blue  the  carrozza  rolled  gently  along. 

Maria  had  been  unable  to  endure  the  hotel, 
and  had  come  out  as  early  as  possible,  and  was 
fortunate  to  find  an  available  vehicle  to  drive  her 
into  the  country.  The  color  her  mountain  pil 
grimage  had  given  her  was  all  gone :  the  fire  her 
love  had  kindled  in  her  breast  burned  still,  but 
its  radiance  was  no  longer  in  her  face.  She  sat 
like  a  dead  woman,  blotting  herself  in  the  corner 
of  her  carriage,  her  blue  eyes  unseeing,  her 
hands  loosely  clasped  in  her  lap.  She  had  said 
to  herself  on  this  morning  when  with  her  waking 
257 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

she  realized  her  mental  state:  "This  is  what 
comes  of  being  a  Puritan  by  stock  and  race,  of 
having  repressed  rigid  ancestors — what  comes 
of  being  called  good.  We  are  not  fit  to  go  into 
paradise,  our  eyes  are  so  blinded  by  convention 
that  we  can  not  even  see  the  door.  Now,"  she 
said  to  herself  as  she  drove  past  the  tufty  cedars 
and  the  blue  cypress  lining  the  walls  of  an  an 
cient  villa,  "it  is  evident  that  I  do  not  love  San- 
dro  if  I  can  contemplate  returning  to  my  hus 
band." 

There  was  a  clamor  at  her  heart  at  the  idea  of 
this  treason,  and  the  going  out  of  her  being  to 
Delia  Gandara  showed  her  that  she  loved  him 
with  all  her  nature,  all  her  senses  .  .  .  with 
all  her  soul  ? 

She  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  the 
tears  came. 

"Gentile  Signora  eccellenza,"  said  the  coach 
man  turning  on  his  seat,  "we  have  but  to  climb 
the  hill  and  we  will  see  the  most  beautiful  view 
in  the  country." 

258 


THE    TWO    VOICES 

"Andiamo,  andiamo,"  she  murmured. 

There  was  no  divorce  in  Italy.  If  she  left  her 
husband  she  could  never  marry  Delia  Gandara : 
Gigi  could  never  marry  another  woman :  all  three 
of  them  would  be  outcasts:  the  future  lives  of 
three  people  would  be  irregular  because  of  her. 
If  she  returned  to  her  husband,  she  would  never 
see  Delia  Gandara  again.  She  knew  his  tempera 
ment  too  well.  If  she  returned  to  her  husband 
she  would  lose  her  love  for  ever.  Clasping  her 
hands  tightly  she  leaned  forward  in  the  car 
riage,  her  attitude  appealing  as  though  she 
called  on  the  unseen  to  come  to  her  aid.  The 
spring  wind  blew  its  pale  kiss  against  her  cheek. 
Alongside  the  heavy  trolley  sagged;  the  horse 
drawing  Maria's  carriage  stumbled  and  the 
coachman  smartly  cracked  his  whip. 

.  .  .  So  long  as  he  believed  that  she  loved 
him,  neither  sea  nor  land,  laws  nor  ceremonies, 
life  nor  death  would  keep  him  from  her;  that 
she  knew.  He  would  overcome  everything  in  or 
der  to  hold  her  again.  In  order  to  keep  him  from 
259 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

her  she  would  be  obliged  to  make  him  believe 
that  she  was  a  heartless  coquette  who  had  amused 
herself  with  his  love.  Could  she  do  this?  A 
ghostly  smile  touched  her  beautiful  lips  and  left 
them  cold  and  passive.  She  regretted  that  she 
had  not  remained  in  Pieve,  remained  there  with 
him,  and,  as  he  had  done,  made  it  her  exile  and 
her  home.  In  the  next  moment  she  felt  indiffer 
ent  to  it  all,  apart  from  it,  and  could  almost  feel 
that  her  experience  had  been  that  of  another 
person — of  some  woman  in  whose  life  she  must 
take  an  interest  by  force  of  circumstances.  No, 
evidently  she  was  not  worthy  a  great  passion, 
evidently  nothing  but  a  poor  creature  made  to 
fulfil  her  humdrum  duty. 

She  had  boasted  to  Father  Faversham :  "You 
shall  see:  if  love  comes  to  me  I  will  be  a  great 
sinner."  She  had  been  weak,  unfaithful  in  desire 
and  intention,  but  a  great  sinner  against  her  hus 
band  she  had  not  been. 

What  would  the  man  she  loved  do  with  the 
rest  of  his  life?  A  little  sound  in  her  throat  came 
260 


THE    TWO    VOICES 

like  a  gasp.    He  had  told  her  what  he  would  have 

done  if  she  had  never  come  to  the  Tiber  country. 

"Innamorata  mia,"  he  had  said,   "you  have 

come  in  time  to  save  me  from  great  emotion, 

great  folly,  and — who  can  say, — perhaps  from 

sainthood  as  well,  for  this  year  I  had  decided  not 

to  endure  my  wretched  existence  another  month. 

I  should  have  gone  back  into  the  world,  to  Rome, 

to  Paris,  and  I  should  have  lived      .      .      .  " 

Then  they  had  been  entering  Pieve  and  he  had 

pointed  up  to  the  monastery  of  Sant'  Angelo 

.     .     .     "I  should  have  returned  there  to  have 

finished  my  life  beyond  those  friendly  walls." 

The  driver  stopped  his  horse. 

"Here,  Signora,"  he  said,  indicating  with  his 

whip,  "is  the  most  beautiful  view  in  all  the  coun- 

try." 

"E  bene,  e  bene"  she  murmured,  "let  us  stop." 

"I  can  not  let  him  go,"  she  said  under  her 

breath.    She  knew  then  how  she  loved  him.    His 

eyes,  his  voice,  his  "Come"  that  had  fetched  her 

from  Naples  and  the  valley  to  him,  the  caresses 

261 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

to  which  she  had  responded,  all  were  a  tremen 
dous  emotion,  and  yet  it  was  not  supreme. 

Why — she  asked  herself — why?  What  was 
there  in  that  other  "Come,  Maria," — from  a 
man  who  had  treated  her  with  infamy  and  shame, 
what  was  there  that  could  draw  her  away  from 
a  lover  and  his  tenderness  ?  she  asked. 

By  the  side  of  his  horse  the  coachman  stood 
smoking  his  cigarette,  and  feeding  the  animal 
an  occasional  wisp  of  wayside  grass.  A  pair  of 
lovers,  young  country-folk  from  Albano,  passed 
arm  in  arm,  radiant,  free  to  love  in  the  spring 
time,  with  the  right  to  build  themselves  a  happy 
nest. 

To  the  right  spread  the  glorious  vista. 

Down  through  the  valley  ran  the  Tiber,  wide, 
milky,  gleaming  in  the  sun,  sweeping  its  silver 
through  the  golden  campagna.  Far  to  the  north, 
Maria  knew  how  far,  rose  the  walls  and  summits 
of  the  Apennines,  and  a  faint  gleam  marked  the 
snow  on  the  peaks,  that  melted  into  the  blue  of 
the  incomparable  heaven. 
282 


THE    TWO    VOICES 

She  knew  what  snows  they  were :  they  had  laid 
their  veils,  their  wreaths,  their  shrouds  around 
the  hut  in  Le  Baize  and  she  had  ridden  Gemma 
through  them  bravely  to  him;  and  through  the 
snows  he  had  come  to  her.  Now  at  the  foot  of 
those  mountains  he  waited  for  her  to  send  him 
word.  She  could  see  the  entire  sweep  of  the  fer 
tile  valley,  jeweled  by  its  ruins,  blackly  sen 
tineled  by  cypress  and  cedar,  honeycombed  by 
its  aqueducts,  and  the  winding  river  as  it  ran  to 
dazzling  Fiemicino. 

Her  eyes  followed  it,  heavily,  slowly,  defi 
nitely  :  followed  the  river  as  it  ran  to  its  mouth, 
and  she  relinquished  and  renounced,  committed 
all  to  the  effacing  element  which  he  saw  through 
the  mist  that  whitened  the  distance  where  the  sea 
lay. 

"The  horse  is  warm,"  said  the  driver  lifting 
his  hat.  "He  is  not  very  strong:  the  air  is 
fresh." 

"Va  bene,"  said  Maria  Sant'  Alcione,  "let  us 
go  back  to  Frascati." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    WAY    TO    HAPPINESS 

THE  Contessa  Sant'  Alcione  sat  in  the  win 
dow  of  her  boudoir  that  looked  upon  Na 
ples.  The  hillside  golden  with  autumn,  the  gold 
of  the  vineyards,  the  gold  of  the  light  itself, 
glowed  under  her  eyes  like  a  ripe  fruit.  The 
beautiful  room,  full  of  flowers,  sweet  with  the 
scent  of  violets,  had  the  air  of  being  inhabited 
by  some  one  who  loved  its  environment,  of  being 
the  home  of  a  woman  who  is  happy  and  who  is 
at  peace. 

Between  her  fingers  the  contessa  swung  to  and 
fro  a  golden  rubber  orange  on  its  string  before 
the  eyes  of  a  child  who  sat  on  her  knees,  whose 
hands  clutched  at  the  yellow  wonder;  the  baby's 
laugh  was  sweet  as  little  bells. 

The  mother  wore  a  dress  of  vivid  blue,  a 
264 


THE    WAY    TO    HAPPINESS 

woolen  dress,  for  she  had  been  walking,  and  by 
her  side  were  her  hat  and  gloves  which  she  had 
thrown  down  to  take  up  her  child.  Her  dark 
hair  laid  its  shadow  around  her  charming  face; 
her  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  son,  whose  gaze 
followed  the  swinging  ball.  He  was  a  vigorous 
child,  less  ethereal  and  exquisite  than  little  San- 
dro,  a  child  to  live,  to  endure,  to  struggle  up,  to 
sustain  his  family  and  his  race. 

Maria  drew  the  baby's  dark  head  to  her  and 
kissed  it  passionately,  then  resting  her  cheek 
against  its  hair  she  turned  her  eyes  toward  Na 
ples  in  the  autumn  light.  Her  husband  was  hunt 
ing,  and  would  not  be  home  until  evening.  The 
body  of  the  child  was  warm  against  her  heart. 
The  baby  now  held  the  orange  ball  in  both  hands 
and  laughed  over  it. 

The  door  slowly  opened  and  a  guest  to  whom 
the  freedom  of  the  charming  room  was  given, 
came  in. 

"Father  Faversham,"  said  the  contessa  with 
out  turning  her  head. 

265 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

The  priest  came  over  and  sat  down  beside  the 
mother  and  child.  The  baby  looked  at  the  priest 
with  friendly  eyes,  gave  his  little  hand  when 
asked,  then  cradled  his  orange  ball  and  talked 
to  it. 

"Well,"  said  the  priest,  "I've  just  come  back 
from  San  Marcello." 

The  contessa  turned  to  him  abruptly,  almost 
expectantly. 

"I  grew  tired  of  waiting  for  you,  Contessa.  I 
had  a  feeling  you  would  not  cicerone  me  again, 
so  I  went  alone." 

"I  have  never  been  to  San  Marcello  in  the 
autumn,"  she  said. 

"It  was  even  more  lovely  than  in  spring.  The 
yellow  leaves  filled  the  garden  as  though  it  were 
a  cup  brimming  with.  gold.  The  cloisters  were 
full  of  drifted  yellow  leaves ;  the  cedar  was  still 
green,  and  the  orange  tree  as  well,  but  I  missed 
the  bird.  I  found  it  greatly  changed  as  no 
doubt  you  know.  'Tis  no  longer  the  solitary  for 
gotten  place  of  prayers  long  said.  One  of  the 
266 


THE    WAY    TO    HAPPINESS 

exiled  French  Orders  has  taken  it,  and  some  of 
the  brothers  are  already  installed." 

"So  you  found  it  unchanged?"  murmured 
Maria  Sant'  Alcione,  for  she  had  not  heard  him. 
He  smiled. 

"Why,  I've  just  been  telling  you  that  it  has 
grown  alive  and  will  be  a  living  active  good,  in 
stead  of  a  dead  relic ;  and  there  is  another  change, 
a  charming  one.  Do  you  remember  the  broken 
bell?  It  has  been  recast,  its  tone  is  unblemished. 
The  guardian  tells  me  that  it  rings  for  all  the 
offices.  It  rang  while  I  was  in  the  belfry.  I 
never  heard  anything  so  sweet." 

Maria  had  now  fully  turned  to  the  priest  and 
her  eyes  were  on  him  over  the  dark  head  of  the 
child. 

"How  very  strange!"  she  said.  She  seemed 
again  to  feel  the  fissure  as  it  ran  along  her  palm 
when  she  had  caressed  the  bronze  bell,  broken 
from  lip  to  stem.  She  heard  again  the  muffled 
heavy  tone,  she  saw  her  glove  with  the  scarred 
palm  as  it  had  lain  upon  the  warm  stones  of  the 
267 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

belfry.  Against  her  heart,  which  had  not  yet 
ceased  to  ache,  she  pressed  her  child. 

"Rather  say  how  beautiful,"  returned  the 
priest — "a  mender  of  old  breaches,  of  waste 
places,  behold  all  things  are  made  new,"  he 
quoted  softly,  his  smiling  eyes  on  the  happy  face 
of  the  baby. 

Maria's  chin  rested  on  her  son's  curls;  her 
face  was  pale,  and  her  eyes,  where  the  color  had 
deepened,  saw  beyond  the  quiet  room  and  Naples, 
to  the  snow  of  Le  Baize,  to  the  fragrant  forest, 
to  the  belfry  of  Sant'  Angelo,  and  she  heard 
Delia  Gandara  say :  "It  is  a  perfect  bell,  with 
out  blemish  in  the  casting;  listen  to  its  heavenly 
tone." 

"Contessa,"  said  the  priest  suddenly,  leaning 
forward.  I  "There  are-as  many  ways  to  happiness 
in  this  world  as  there  are  human  souls,  believe 
me.  Every  soul  would  find  its  own  bliss  if  it 
would  walk  in  its  individual  road,  praying  God. 
There  are  those  who  disgrace  their  ideals,  of 
course,  some  of  us  in  the  belief  that  desire  is 
268 


THE    WAY   TO    HAPPINESS 

happiness,  that  gratification  is  pleasure,  soil  our 
selves  in  vain.  There  are  those  whose  minds  and 
hearts  are  so  clean  that  only  purity  and  good 
ness  can  ever  give  them  any  peace.  There  are 
women" — he  lowered  his  voice,  watching  her  face 
as  it  bent  over  the  child,  "who,  because  they  are 
sacred,  lay  down  their  luxury  and  their  pleasure, 
their  bodily  gratification,  their  love  and  their 
passion  at  the  feet  of  goodness.  Whether  they 
found  happiness  or  not  the  Book  does  not  say. 
I  think  they  did — I  believe  they  did."  J 

Maria's  arms  were  around  her  child;  her  face 
was  intent,  there  was  a  purity  about  her  expres 
sion,  softened  by  its  motherhood,  etherealized  by 
its  renunciation. 

"And  you,"  Faversham  said,  "are  one  of  those 
sacred  women." 

She  shook  her  head,  the  tears  sprang  to  her 
eyes,  her  lip  trembled. 

"No,  no,  Father  Faversham,"  she  began  ar 
dently,  "you  don't  dream,  you  don't  know  what 
I  am." 

269 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

He  lifted  his  hand  and  said  gently:  "Hush, 
Maria." 

He  made  over  the  mother  and  the  child  the 
sign  of  the  cross  rapidly  and  said  in  Latin: 
"Peace  I  give  unto  you." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE    MOTHER    CHURCH 

THAT  evening  Faversham  sat  with  Sant' 
Alcione  on  the  terrace  of  the  villa  over 
their  liqueurs  and  cigars,  which  Alcione  alone  en 
joyed.  The  two  men  were  friends.  Sant'  Alcione 
had  always  liked  the  Irishman,  and  the  priest 
found  his  host  very  much  changed.  Sant' 
Alcione  had  grown  thinner;  a  long  illness  in  the 
summer  had  reduced  his  weight,  and  his  regular 
abstemious  existence,  his  inward  content,  had  re 
fined  his  features.  According  to  public  opinion 
he  had  settled  down  and  the  Sant'  Alciones  had 
become  bourgeois  and  uninteresting  as  far  as  the 
world  was  concerned. 

Standing  within  the  doorway  between  terrace 
and  dining-room,  in  her  white  dress,  Maria  lis 
tened   to   her  husband's   conversation   with   the 
priest  without  taking  part. 
271 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

"Maria,"  her  husband  called,  "I  have  a  letter 
from  Carlo  Rospinosi  in  Rome.  He  was  my  best 
man,"  he  said  to  Faversham.  "You  know  Delia 
Gandara  who  was  so  hospitable  to  you  in  Pieve, 
Maria  P" 

She  had  taken  hold  of  the  curtain  that  fell  at 
her  side  and  stood  immovable. 

"Do  you  hear,  Maria?"  repeated  Sant'  Al- 
cione,  and  she  was  obliged  to  answer:  "Yes,  I 
hear." 

"Well,  he  has  gone  into  the  priesthood;  such 
a  gay,  wild,  harebrained  chap,  with  a  curious 
history,"  he  said  to  the  priest. 

Sant'  Alcione  struck  a  match  sharply,  lighted 
a  fresh  cigarette  and  crossed  his  legs. 

"But  of  all  things  to  go  into  the  church,  for 
a  man  like  Sandro!  But  the  priesthood  harbors 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  non  e  vero,  padre 
mio?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Father  Faversham  gently, 
"its  embrace  is  wide  and  its  heart  is  profound  in 
deed." 

272 


THE    MOTHER    CHURCH 

To  his  wife  Sant'  Alcione  said:  "He  has  en 
tered  the  brotherhood  at  Pieve,  a  very  old  order, 
I  believe,  a  fine  historic  monastery.  Possibly  you 
may  have  visited  it,  Maria?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  turned  as  though  she 
would  have  gone  indoors,  then  instead  came  out 
slowly,  her  white  dress  drawing  its  satin  lightly 
along  the  floors  of  the  terrace.  She  stood  a  sec 
ond  by  her  husband's  side  looking  at  Father  Fa- 
versham,  and  her  eyes  met  the  priest's,  then  she 
crossed  the  terrace  and  seated  herself  on  the  stone 
wall.  Beneath  her  lay  Naples  under  the  night, 
sown  with  its  lights  like  an  illuminated  tapestry. 
There  were  the  lights  of  the  harbor  and  port, 
the  lights  along  the  sides  of  Vesuvius,  and  the 
stars  overhead.  One  by  one  the  bells  rang  out 
from  the  belfries,  and  in  the  direction  of  the 
Porta  Capuana  quarter  she  fancied  that  she  dis 
tinguished  the  ringing  of  a  bell  she  had  not 
heard  before.  She  knew  the  different  sounds  and 
loved  them  all — this  seemed  to  call  to  her  across 
the  night,  and  she  thought:  "It  is  perfect  now, 
273 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

it  rings  at  the  same  hour  with  the  perfect  bell 
that  marks  his  hours  of  prayer." 

The  voices  of  her  husband  and  the  priest  were 
agreeable  at  her  side,  in  the  room  above  her  child 
was  asleep.  And  the  man  in  Pieve? 

Not  once  since  she  had  left  Frascati,  after 
writing  him  a  letter  and  a  telegram  to  tell  him 
that  it  was  the  mistake  of  a  fickle  woman  and 
that  she  did  not  love  him — not  once  had  she  dared 
to  let  his  suffering  and  his  solitude  absorb  her. 
She  had  taken  her  decision  and  acted  instantly. 
If  she  had  waited  a  day  or  an  hour  longer  she 
never  would  have  been  equal  to  the  sacrifice.  She 
fled  from  Frascati,  as  she  had  fled  from  Naples, 
and  from  Rome,  had  gone  with  her  husband  to 
travel  for  a  year,  and  old  wounds  and  old  bruises 
healed  in  new  scenes.  "- 

After  the  birth  of  Her  child,  often  in  quiet 
times  such  as  this  afternoon  before  the  priest 
had  come  to  tell  her  of  San  Marcello  and  the  bell, 
she  had  wondered,  realizing  that  she  had  been 
saved  from  great  sin  as  well  as  having  been  de- 
274 


THE    MOTHER    CHURCH 

nied  a  great  love — she  had  wondered  what  power 
had  saved  her. 

She  knew  that  of  herself  she  could  not  have 
done  this  thing:  nothing  in  her  wished  to  be 
saved.  The  only  existence  she  had  desired  was  a 
life  with  the  man  she  so  humanly  loved.  At  these 
times  of  wonder  she  recalled  stages  of  her  pil 
grimage,  the  passing  of  the  solitary  woman 
through  the  Le  Baize  forest,  the  superstitious 
Adamo  on  his  knees,  the  strange  woman  in  the 
black-raftered  inn,  Maria  Goanelli's  sick  child 
at  her  breast.  Once  again  she  heard  the  nurse 
exclaim :  "Madonna,  Madonna !"  and  the  mystic 
child  whose  glory  had  infused  her  that  night  in 
her  attic  room,  became  symbolic,  and  she  won 
dered  if,  in  place  of  a  sinful  human  woman  an 
angel  had  not  taken  her  place  to  save  a  soul. 

This  afternoon,  however,  Maria  found  that 
she  had  not  yet  reached  an  ultimate  spiritual 
height;  that  she  was  still  a  feeling  suffering 
heart.  And  she  acknowledged  that  always  there 
had  been  in  her  mind  the  hope  of  a  future  toward 
275 


THE    BROKEN    BELL 

which  she  yearned,  and  for  which  she  uncon 
sciously  lived.  Now  the  finality  of  Delia  Gan- 
dara's  act,  his  taking  of  the  orders  meant  an 
everlasting  separation.  His  thoughts  even  would 
belong  to  God.  She  could  not  reach  him  now  ex 
cept  by  prayer.  She  believed  his  ardent  nature, 
his  fervent  spirit,  would  turn  him  as  passionately 
to  devotion  and  to  God  as  it  had  turned  him  to 
her.  A  terrible  loneliness  swept  over  her:  she 
could  have  wept  aloud. 

Her  husband  rose. 

"Maria,  you'll  be  chilled  on  that  cold  stone. 
Come,  carissima,  let  us  go  indoors." 

She  rose,  came  toward  him  obediently ;  he  put 
his  arm  around  her  and  led  her  in. 

Father  Faversham  followed  slowly,  but  paused 
at  the  window  to  enjoy  the  autumn  night  for  a 
few  moments  more.  The  motionless  sea  lay  pale 
beneath  the  stars ;  as  he  looked  a  meteor  shot 
across  the  heavens  and  was  lost.  The  ship  for 
whose  safety  they  had  been  anxious  lay  anchored 
in  the  port.  He  was  not  thinking  of  what  he  saw 
276 


His  thoughts  even  would  belong  to  God. 


THE    MOTHER    CHURCH 

but  of  the  woman  whose  eyes  just  now  had  met 
his  with  confession  and  distress.  Her  soul  was 
precious  to  him,  but  he  believed  it  to  be  safe; 
her  happiness  was  precious  to  him,  and  he  be 
lieved  it  to  be  assured.  His  lips  moved  silently 
and  he  remained  for  a  moment  praying,  his  head 
bent  and  his  hands  held  against  his  breast  as 
though  he  clasped  some  emblem  there;  then  he. 
too,  turned  and  went  into  the  villa. 


THE    END 


A\\E-UNIVER$//j 


UCSOUTHERN    EGJONA   LIBRARY  FACJL T^ 


